


Nothing But My Feelings

by starfirefighter



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Sugar Daddy, Anal Sex, Body Image, ChanCheol only evokes soft feelings I apologize, Cheese with Milk, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Implied Sexual Content, Insecurities, Lingerie, M/M, Praise Kink, Relationship Problems, Self-Indulgent, Sex Tapes, Sex Toys, Smut, The Author Regrets Everything, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, You've been warned, a good ten thousand words is just praise for THE lee chan, but he deserves it so much, cheese for the fluff, milk for the creamy white cum, the punishment palms are back with a vengeance, this is more fluff than smut, this is now the official tag for fluff with smut jk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-13
Updated: 2021-01-13
Packaged: 2021-03-17 12:21:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28725009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starfirefighter/pseuds/starfirefighter
Summary: After weeks of rain checks and apology gifts, Chan attempts several methods to sugarcoat his unfiltered desire for his sugar daddy’s attention. Meanwhile, Seungcheol considers if what his sugar baby really wants is presents or his presence.orThe fic where Chan and Seungcheol figure things out.
Relationships: Choi Seungcheol | S.Coups/Lee Chan | Dino
Comments: 2
Kudos: 81





	Nothing But My Feelings

**Author's Note:**

> **Trigger warning for thoughts on body image**.
> 
> This is probably the most impulsive thing I’ve written… it’s quite messy and un-beta-ed, so I hope it all makes sense cohesively. ＿|￣|○
> 
> The fic is based on my current favorite song of the same name (Little Mix’s ‘Nothing But My Feelings’). Please give it a listen on [YouTube](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iy9tM9aSQeQ) or [Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/track/6DLWgN2TOxdsOXmtLBZAe0?si=Q9rihHJGRhuX8MaXXsyf6g)! (*˙˘˙)♡ To be honest, I only extracted a couple of lines and the essence from the song’s title since the song is about a one-night stand… and this fic is all about the cheesy fluff. Σ(ﾟ∀ﾟﾉ)ﾉ
> 
> As mentioned in the tags, this is more fluff than smut, so the sexual content is not as plentiful but still very much there. With that said, I hope you enjoy reading! (=^ᴥ^=)
> 
> NOTE: Chan, Hansol, and Minghao refer to one another as colors at some point in the fic. Their assigned name is the color of their prince costume during the Diamond Edge concert! There’s no real rhyme or reason to it… I just found them all adorable in the picture and wanted to squeeze it in somehow. (´▽`ʃƪ)♡

**The Real Channie:**

Hey, daddy!

Just passed my contribution for that critical appraisal to Seungkwan

So, I’m basically free now for the evening

What do you want to eat for dinner?

I mean, aside from me

I can order from that jjajangmyeon place I know you like

Even though you always say it’s ‘only okay’

Or do you want to lay back and get something simpler

The chicken place down the block is probably still open

I can run down and get a box with some beer

I know you said you wanted to cook for tonight, but the last time you said you “cooked pasta,” it turns it was just take-out

I don’t mind, though, daddy

Everything about you is delicious

Are you busy again, daddy? Is this not a good time?

I can make myself busy again

I still have that pharmacokinetics problem set that I can work on for a bit

Then throw away when you throw me against the headboard

Seungcheol hyung?

Is daddy mad at me? Did I do something wrong?

I promised I washed my dishes this time!

**The Daddy and Only** :

Hey, baby. Sorry daddy couldn’t get to you sooner. Stuck in another meeting with the partners for the year-end audit. The fiscal year is ending, so the entire office is scrambling to meet the deadline. I don’t think I can make it back early tonight.

I’m really sorry, sweetheart. Don’t wait up for me, I might come back home pretty late.

**The Real Channie** :

Aww, again, daddy?

You’re always staying out late in the office now-a-days

You promised to be home early today

We’ve been waiting so long for this night out together

Can’t you say you have a personal emergency or something?

A sex-mergency

**The Daddy and Only** :

Channie, not now. Daddy said he’s busy tonight. I’m really sorry, but this is out of my hands.

If I could have it my way, I would already be back at home with you, you know that right, baby? It’s just something daddy has to do.

**The Real Channie** :

I know, daddy

It’s just that

Nevermind

I’m sorry for texting you like this

Good luck with your meeting, Seungcheol hyung!

I know you can do this

Chan’s cheering you on! I love you!

**The Daddy and Only** :

Channie…

Chan thinks he hears his phone ring a couple more times, the characteristic cowbell clanking that signifies more texts from his beloved, but he’s too busy deflating atop the California king bed, his phone tossed off to the side. He’s essentially a puddle encased by satin sheets, melting away into a sad puddle of emotions. Notes of Seungcheol’s innate scent, a combination of musk and rosewood, fill his olfactory receptors and his heart quivers with longing.

It wouldn’t be the first time the older cancelled on him at the last minute. And it wasn’t the first time he found himself moping on a bed five times larger than humanly necessary, inside a humongous penthouse unit that could house his entire bloodline. But Chan knows he’s not exactly in a position of power – physically, sexually, or otherwise – to start making demands from the older.

The younger is not one-hundred percent sure what Seungcheol does for a living. All he knows with relative certainty is that it involves a whole lot of numbers and excessively long excel sheets and pushing his hair back at 2 AM due to stress. All he knows with absolute certainty is that Seungcheol is a busy man and that the only help Chan can offer is to be a supportive sugar baby and help the older pop the cap off to destress.

In hindsight, he should have prepared better for the changes. Over an expensive dinner one night, in the kind of restaurant where waiters made sure patrons did nothing but lift utensils to eat or a glass to drink, Seungcheol explained that he was the newest and youngest partner in his auditing firm at the time. The promotion was astronomical. From the older’s simple managerial role, he was hoisted up into the big leagues with the even bigger financial alphas.

Back then, Chan was over and beyond the moon, hardly paying any mind to how Seungcheol calmly expounded on how he would grow increasingly busy with his new position, focused solely on celebrating the other’s success. Daddy was a diligent man and the expensive clothes and jewelry he received were a blaring indication of his success. Both of which are the same reasons why he feels like he has no place to plant his flag and stake his claims – his daddy had specifically warned him about this very situation and just the growing list of items Chan takes in on a near weekly basis every time the older has to pull off yet another all-nighter in the office.

 _Always the wrong all-nighter_ , Chan mopes, his dick duly neglected.

A subconscious part of him is aware that ignoring his sugar daddy’s texts is not exactly textbook “How to Be the Best Sugar Baby” behavior and, had this happened earlier in their relationship, he would be on the receiving end of Seungcheol’s exalted punishment palms, spanking and smacking his ass for being a bad, bad boy. There’s initial pain, but the older always made sure to compensate with a mixture of soft kisses and blooming marks on his lips, his neck, the expanse of his body, never missing an opportunity to paint his town red.

Then, of course, they have the lengthy, pleasurable, rabid, animalistic, three-to-one nut ratio bed/table/wall/stairway/balcony sex that Chan is all the more excited for. But that’s not the point.

Because, after three months of Seungcheol’s last minute cancellations, the younger knows that the tremble in his heart is not from the glass dildo he rides every night his sugar daddy has to remain in the office, arguing with another audit partner or meeting with a new international client, just so that Chan can masturbate himself to sleep instead of resorting to his pitiful tears, but from the unmistakable feeling of yearning that flows out when he has to cover himself under the cold sheets without his favorite big spoon to warm him up.

To the older’s credit, the ‘I’m sorry’ presents were always an exorbitant surprise. Lavish training outfits, overpriced sneakers, sparkling jewelries of gold and diamonds, and several other opulent items that make Soonyoung obsessively pester Wonwoo for ‘not treating him like he deserves.’ Seungcheol even went as far as earning the best friend cards of approval, funding every one of Minghao’s art exhibits and Hansol’s extensive (and, albeit, slightly pretentious) vinyl record collection.

But would it be selfish for him to wish that whenever the delivery man hands him another bulky package with his name on it, it’s just a simple letter informing him that the older is on his way back to their penthouse? Or, even better, that the older was hiding inside that box to surprise him, clad with their favorite seaweed soup and a set of midnight movie tickets?

Because Chan can flaunt his new ensembles on his Instagram account and garner several likes from his humble following, but they won’t sit him down for a hot meal and genuinely ask him about his day. He can lounge around all day in an extravagant apartment filled with billion won treasures, but it won’t look at him like he was already their most cherished possession. He can arrange all his gleaming gems in their case and stare at them as they glisten from the overcast light, but they won’t listen to him intently as he rambles on about Seungkwan’s incessant nagging for him to take his vitamins or Mingyu’s unrelenting reminders to clean up after himself or a combination of the two that just about sets the whole parenting world into an ardent wildfire.

Long story short, Chan misses the man he loves and he’s not taking it like the super trooper he thought he was. ABBA can put a sock in it.

However, he’s not the type of sugar baby to let the melancholy get the best of him. He knows he has two options laid out in front of him. On one side, he can remain in his petulant state and seek the dildo inside their nightstand to clock out for the night. Or, on the other side, he can steel himself once more and take a page from chapter 2 of the “How to Be the Best Sugar Baby” book and learn a little bit on how to ensure that his daddy doesn’t have anything else to worry about outside of work (chapter 1 is all about how to ride his daddy like a champion and Chan is a multiple gold medalist).

Wiping on his raw eyelids, Chan gets on his feet, knowing that he has his work cut out for him. Before he exits the master bedroom, he eyes his phone one last time before deciding against it. He wants this to be a surprise for the older, a small reward for always doing his best in the office. Resolved, he puts himself to work.

The penthouse had always been spick and span, but there’s no harm in adding a little tender loving Chan to spruce it up to the nines. Laundry was always his weakest suit when it came to chores, Hansol and his unfortunate attention span having to manage their clothing in their dorm room back on campus, but for his sugar daddy, he would willingly set up and run his own laundromat. Which he kind of already does, always picking up after the trail of clothes the older regularly leaves on the floor. Once he initiates the first rinse cycle, whites, colors, and delicates neatly separated, the younger moves on to the living spaces.

Equipped with his trusted multi-purpose, might-have-used-once-for-punishment-sex bucket on one hand and a tight bandana tied around his temple, he begins from the top-down, dusting and arranging the higher shelves and bookcases, careful not to ruin his daddy’s many volumes on finance laws and period novels. Satisfied, Chan gets on his knees (sadly not for sucking Seungcheol off) and scrubs the living daylight out of the marble floors. It’s bitter work, but cleaning is where he can best apply his perfectionist tendencies, he believes. Not allowing one speck of dirt go past him, he polishes every curve and crevice until he marvels at his own reflection on the refined limestone.

After hurriedly setting aside his Cooking Mama get-up, Chan makes his way to the kitchen to prepare the evening’s highlight – their dinner. With Seungcheol’s professional knife set, the plethora of world class ingredients lining their cabinets and refrigerator, and the fancy Michelin star kitchen equipment at his disposal, the younger reaches for the telephone and dials up their local jjajangmyeon restaurant, scheduling a heaping take-out plate for them to share later. Unsure of what the older actually wants for dinner, he also orders a box of fried chicken and a six-pack of beers as a back-up plan. He could always offer any excess to the music producer and his catboy boyfriend downstairs if he overordered. Sugar baby solidarity.

Chan plops on the couch with a muffled ‘oof.’ There’s a numb ache on his muscles from overexertion, but a sense of delight sprouts in his chest knowing that Seungcheol will be proud of him for taking the initiative. He inspects the room with rose-colored lenses, already planning where he would situate his “Sugar Baby of the Year” award, when his eyes round out at the clock, a pointed frown forming on his lips.

His entire excursion lasted a record fifteen minutes. The older wasn’t due for hours and hours later.

 _What do I do now_ , he wonders for the tenth time that day, the hundredth time that week, the nth time that month.

Blankly, he stares at fluorescent lights on the ceiling, missing their shadows looming over the gray tones. Now that the adrenaline was slowly waning, the weight of the day was slowly bearing down on him. He’d been up since 6 AM, having overslept the night before, and rushed to complete and submit his case analysis in time for his first class of the day. His time on campus was an indubitable blur, his legs moving by memory and his mind on autopilot mode. Every sound and noise, from Seungkwan ranting about their EBM and Drug Information professor to Hansol introducing him to yet another one of his new favorite artists, simply entered one ear, skipped every processing step like hopscotch, and exited the other canal. It was as if his body had conditioned him to focus solely on the older’s promise and the evening ahead of him. And his brain had defendable motives.

It was a special day for them and, after months of consistent overtime, Seungcheol finally landed a half-day, the most he could reap amid the end of his auditing firm’s fiscal year. Chan didn’t complain, however, more than ecstatic that it landed on that date in particular.

Though, he silently wishes that past him popped his wistful balloon sooner so that the fall from hopeful heaven onto harsh reality wasn’t as painful. What first began as “I just have to meet with Jisoo until 2 PM” soon transformed into “Jeonghan needs to discuss the Pledis Corporation papers with me at 4 PM” which ultimately became “Seokmin and I were required to convene with the other partners for the year-end audit at 6 PM.” And Chan already knows that, as long as the clause ‘with the other partners’ is a part of the question, Seungcheol wouldn’t be back earlier than midnight.

That clause was always a weighted addend that messed up all his sex-quations, worsened further by the fact that Chan is terrible at mathematics and sex politics.

 _Should I call him_ , he contemplates, thrumming his finger on the leather armrest. If he times it right, he can reach the older in one of his breaks during their partners meeting and offer heartfelt encouragement, maybe even ruffle his feathers a little just to get the ball rolling. But, if he plays the cards wrong like he usually does, Seungcheol might not be in the best condition to receive his call and the younger thinks – no, _knows_ – that he can’t stomach a scolding in his present state.

Sighing, Chan slowly slides off the chair in a pathetic fashion, bereft of any semblance of bone density. Now back on the marble floor he spent less than five minutes scrubbing, his gaze lands on the portrait displayed on the coffee table. It’s a picture of them on their first time together as a couple on the beach. Admittedly, the image is not exactly the most couple-worthy of the bunch since the older is literally supplexing him into the seawater, but he involuntarily smiles remembering their simpler moments together.

How, on that same day, Seungcheol carried him on his back to the deeper parts of the bay when Chan eagerly wanted to see the orange and white fishes that everyone was talking about. How the older quickly replaced the ice cream cone that fell out of his grasp due to his sheer excitement from seeing said fishes, offering a chaste peck on his forehead in consolation. How his sugar daddy found a way for them to have a spontaneous budget trip to the coast when the younger was feeling anxious about his coursework at university. They walked along the shore that night, Seungcheol gently imploring him to let all his thoughts out and listening attentively as Chan rambled on for hours about how stressful his college program was.

That was also the day Chan found out that sex on the beach is truly only meant for the silver screen after having experienced sand entering… less than favorable places.

Nonetheless, that trip is one of his favorite recollections with Seungcheol, all tender and fuzzy and somewhat grainy ( _damn sand_ ) in his memory. The older was still fresh to his partner position then and times were undoubtedly simpler and more plentiful. Chan recalls one of the older’s recent text messages and his heart softens knowing that, if Seungcheol really could have it his way, he would already be back at their penthouse by now. The thought does nothing to temper his loneliness and craving, but it does help get the younger back on his feet, refreshing butterflies fluttering in his belly.

He takes his time in the shower, cleansing himself from that evening’s sanitation frenzy and pointedly trying not to count down the minutes until the older’s most probable arrival. Back on the bed and adorned with a fresh pair of sweats, he collects his phone. Chan sees several more messages from his daddy, but he sets them aside for now, not wanting to disturb him during his important partners meeting.

Instead, the younger dials a different number. If experience serves him correctly, the recipient would be on their phone at this time of the night and not in one of their music-meditation moods, whatever the hell that was.

It takes a couple of rings, but a voice eventually filters through, accompanied by faint background noise and pixelated gunshots.

“Yellow.”

“Pink.”

“Oh, hey, Chan. What’s up?” Hansol asks, though sounding slightly distracted. “Hold on, let me put you on speakerphone.” There’s muffled whispering emanating from the speakers and what sounds like exasperated shrugging and Chan already knows who else is on the other line. “Turquoise also says ‘hi.’”

The apparent greeter scoffs. “You know I can say that myself, right? Hey, man. Why’d you call?”

“No reason, just wanted to catch up with you guys.” He rolls along the king-sized bed, plenty of room to beat around the bush. “What are you guys up to?”

“At the arcade, beating my top score on Contra,” Hansol half-yells out to which Minghao scolds him to keep his voice down. “Sorry about that, almost died there. It’s so easy to lose on here if you’re being careless. Good thing I’m a professional.”

“A professional who’s been at this for three hours when he should be working on his lab report due tomorrow.”

Hansol whines, “It’s just a couple thousands more until I land a new top score.” Chan doesn’t have to see him to know that his roommate is pouting, an action Minghao can’t say no to. “I thought you wanted to help me form a sentence with our top scores.”

Another exasperated sigh. “Fine. One last spot then we’re going home.”

“Thanks, babe.” He hears the familiar sound of lips on lips and a subtle pang of something resounds in his chest. _Was that envy?_ Chan clears his throat to push the discomfort aside. “Oh, sorry, dude. Almost forgot you were there.”

“You guys were literally about to make out with me on the other end. You two are so disgusting and so made for each other.”

“You really want to talk about _us_ being disgusting, Chan?” Minghao retorts. “Who was it again that cockwarmed their sugar daddy under their desk while he was in the middle of leading a virtual town hall?”

“It wasn’t _that_ bad,” the youngest contends. Cockwarming was one of the many benefits of having a non-existent gag reflex and he recalls some old proverb that stated humans were bound by duty to share their natural talents. And, for two amazing hours, share he did.

“Whatever, denial is just a river. What did you want again?”

Chan hums as he thinks, aiming for subtlety yet landing on conspicuousness. “Can’t I call out of the blue to ask my friends how they’re doing?”

“Of course, you can,” his roommate calmly replies just as the former’s boyfriend reacts with a solid, “Nope.”

“See, this is why Hansol is my favorite and my roommate.”

“And this is why I’m out of your shared dorm room before sunrise,” Minghao quips.

The gamer guffaws at their banter, clearly amused (though he also finds smiley faces on jars of jam to be highly amusing, so Chan doesn’t know how to feel about that). “Talk to me, Pink.”

“Okay, umm,” Chan faceplants on the bed, phone directly next to his face. “How’s your coursework?”

“Coursework? Alright, I guess. The recent pharmacology exam was a bitch and there’s that post-lab report for drug dosage forms laboratory due tomorrow,” Hansol quickly utters, clearly intent on slaying alien entities while maintaining conversations with earthly humans, “which you should know of, by the way! I almost forgot we’re in the same degree program.”

“Yeah, I finished that with Seungkwan last night,” he sighs. “How’s the dorm? Is our rent due any time soon?”

“Rent? I thought Seungcheol hyung already had us prepaid for the entire semester?”

“Right, and I knew that,” he trails off, running out of topics to fill in the empty space. The youngest’s voice stutters when he inquires, “H-how are you and Myungho hyung?” and he winces.

“I’d say we’re doing great. What do you think, babe?” Another scoff overcomes the arcade sounds and Hansol coos. “Come on, don’t you think so, too, Hao?”

“I think you’re cheesy and that you should spend less time talking about our relationship and more time clearing your to-do list, you oaf.”

“Oaf? That’s not what you called me earlier when I was riding your dick-“

Chan blushes, eyes wide as saucers, while Minghao grows livid. “Holy shit, what did I _just_ say?”

“I’m not sorry, babe. My boyfriend’s cock is _huge_ ,” his roommate prolongs infinitesimally, speaking more to whoever might be close to them rather than the phone.

The huge-cocked boyfriend sighs all the world’s exhaustion. “Chan, can you give me a moment to talk with this doofus?”

“Hey!”

“Uh, yeah, sure. Definitely. Take all the time you need,” Chan mumbles, still flushed and unable to process the new information he definitely did not ask for.

“Thanks.” Minghao must believe he’s off speakerphone while he reprimands Hansol, but not everyone is graced with technological knowhow. “Now, starting with that big blabber mouth of yours-“

The whole thing couldn’t have lasted more than three whole minutes, but one-hundred and eighty seconds is a _really_ long time in Awkwardville. It began with Minghao listing down all the people Hansol had revealed their sex life to and something along the lines of ‘I’m going to burn down your entire Star Wars collection if you don’t stop’ to which his roommate corrects that ‘it’s actually Star Trek’ to which the boyfriend most probably rolls his eyes as he claims that he ‘doesn’t see the difference’ to which the other gasps as if listening to a radio drama. Which is basically what Chan is doing while his best friends go back and forth over the merits of social conduct and finer sex etiquette, Minghao mostly taking the lead.

But Hansol is a sweet talker, exactly the reason how the two of them became roommates in the first place despite the former’s inherent stance on anti-dishwashing duties, and, further, how he got into a relationship with his boyfriend. And sweet must be Minghao’s favorite palette because, at exactly one-hundred and eighty seconds, they’re lapping each other up for the phone to bear witness, all problems resolved apparently.

Again, the youngest clears his throat. The only person he wants to have phone sex with is busy in a partners meeting and he doesn’t really want to settle for his best friends’ teleservice subscription.

“Sorry ‘bout that, man,” Minghao atones, finally using his tongue to talk and not to eat Hansol alive.

“It’s fine,” he shrugs. “I’m actually very jealous of you two, you know.”

“Jealous,” the oldest enunciates as if verifying a claim. “Of us.”

“Yes! You two are always together. I want that kind of relationship.”

Had Chan been with them, he already knows Minghao would be staring at him with as much impartiality as a can of baby corn. “We’re not _always_ together.”

Somewhere amidst the pixelated musical warfare, he hears Hansol assent to Chan’s allegation and, again, he’s thankful for his choice of roommate.

“Whatever. You sure are one to talk even though you have a sexy bear of a boyfriend with the fortune of a stingy eighty-year-old.”

“That’s gross and it’s not about the money, Myungho hyung.”

“Yeah, yeah, he has a premium membership in the country club and even more enormous membership in his pants, we get it.” The youngest just about perishes, internally punching himself for always oversharing, but there’s no stopping Turquoise when he’s at the wire end of his patience. “Now, tell me why you really called tonight.”

“Like I said, I wanted to catch up with my best friends,” he supplies.

“Come on, you can lie better than that,” the oldest chuckles. “We literally saw each other hours ago on campus. What’s this really about? I thought you had that big night planned with Seungcheol hyung.”

A helpless groan escapes, “I thought so, too, but you know the universe hates me.”

“Chan, if the universe hated you, it wouldn’t have sent you a sugar daddy that’s willing to fund you until you die and shower with you presents until you’re drowning in gold coins.”

“It’s not about the expensive gifts!” he repeats, feeling a testy emotion rising, and he’s not entirely fond of it.

But turquoise was always a wise and tranquil color. “Calm down there. What is it about then, Pink?”

“Is Seungcheol hyung stuck at the office again?” Hansol chimes in.

“Yeah, for the millionth time this year,” he sighs, running his hands through his hair, frustrated. “You know, Yellow, he might as well just live there.”

“Don’t be mad, Chan. I know you don’t mean that.”

“Well, maybe I am mad,” the youngest snaps, unsure where the fire is coming from and where it’s going. “I know that I’m just a junior in college and he’s this big executive in the corporate world, so I have no idea what he must be going through at work, but I’m tired of having a relationship with his answering machine!”

The line runs cold, save for Hansol destroying another alien fortress and the familiar babble of a crowd. Slowly settling onto him, his fury suddenly melts away and makes room for embarrassment. He’s typically not the person to lash out like this, more so on his friends who honestly care about him.

“S-sorry,” he mumbles after the bout of silence. “I didn’t mean to throw those words at you guys. You guys just wanted to help me, and I wasn’t cooperating.”

“Hey, don’t beat yourself up for that, Pink,” the gamer’s voice pours in, honey sweet and patient, and Chan doesn’t deserve them. “Getting mad is part of being human.”

“You’re right,” he sighs, clinging onto the pillow Seungcheol usually sleeps on. One sharp inhale is enough to engulf him in a mirage of musk, rosewood, and silent Sunday afternoons with his beloved, the older reading one of his period novels while the younger fits himself on their lap, his head slotting perfectly on the crook of the other’s neck. “I just really miss him.”

“And that’s fine, too,” Minghao soothes, very uncharacteristically him yet wholly honest as the youngest always remembers.

“Is it right for me to feel like this? T-to want him to pay more attention to me and make demands when already does so much for me?”

“Of course, it is. It’s true love, Pink! You’re allowed to make all the demands you want. You can ask him for that private studio you always wanted or that hedgehog you had your eyes on last week-“

“Okay, please stop talking now.” There’s muffled discourse followed by Minghao apologizing and Chan is glad those two balance each other out. “I think what my boyfriend _meant_ to say was that your emotions are completely valid, and you shouldn’t feel bad about them. Am I correct, Sol?”

The gagged one harrumphs and luckily the youngest comprehends and is fluent in semi-gibberish speak having practiced fervently with Seungcheol whenever he’s getting his ass eaten out and needs to give the green or red light.

“The question now is if you’ve told Seungcheol hyung any of these feelings.”

Chan whimpers. “A-am I supposed to?”

“Absolutely, dude. I can assure you that, while your sugar daddy is one talented man, he is definitely not a mind reader,” Minghao reminds him. “Communication is the key to any healthy relationship.”

“I know that. It’s just… what if he grows annoyed with me because I’m being too needy?”

Finally free of the temporary gag, Hansol weighs in. “Wait, I thought you said he liked it when you’re being needy.”

The youngest almost chokes on his spit. “That’s in bed, Yellow! I’m talking about being _emotionally_ needy.”

“Oh, that clears things up.”

“And that’s enough out of you, Sol. Why don’t you go and beat that top score so we can go home already, hmm?” The youngest hears some shuffling on the other end before he determines that he was taken off speakerphone, correctly this time around. “Listen, Chan. I’m going to be as straight as I possibly can be with these gay bones in my body. While every one of these emotions you have is well-founded, you shouldn’t expect Seungcheol hyung to understand how you feel if you yourself haven’t made an effort to make your feelings known.”

“But-“

“No ‘buts,’ Chan. That truly man loves you, am I correct?”

“He does love me,” the youngest concurs in a heartbeat.

“Okay, I’m going to pretend that you didn’t say that with so much fondness that it’s actually making me hurl,” Minghao teases, forcing out fake gagging noises. “If he does love you, then he will listen to what you have to say and work on a compromise where both of you win.”

Chan knows that the oldest is right. Partly because it’s _Minghao_ and he’s always right, and he knows that Seungcheol would listen to him if he had something on his mind. History has shown the idea to be highly factitious and intuitions tell him that it’s safe to open his heart wide open. It’s just the part of him being small that finds going against his preset convictions completely insurmountable.

Groaning, the youngest sits upright, Seungcheol’s pillow still in his embrace. “I hate it when you’re right.”

Turquoise giggles. “What can I say? It’s a gift.”

“How do I tell him, though? I couldn’t even tell daddy about the time I broke his expensive plate setting, how much more that I want him to pay more attention to me?”

“Well, first of all, please don’t refer to him as your ‘daddy’ in front of us. Your voice is totally erotically charged. And second, I don’t know how you two normally iron out your issues, but if I were in your place, and this is just me, I would just say it how I mean it.”

“Say it how I mean it,” Chan repeats.

“Exactly. Tell him nothing but your feelings.”

 _Nothing but my feelings_ , he ponders, a tinkling of Deja vu ringing in his brain. How could he possibly do that? The thought alone sends goosebumps all over his skin, discomfort heckling his hair. It’s not that Seungcheol was an unreasonable man because, on the contrary, he was highly logical and cerebral. There’s just a venomous viper coiled around his heart, puncturing the muscle to fill him with worries.

That he really is only a pretentious junior in college who has no idea what he wants to do in life. That the ten-year age gap places an entire ravine between them, further separating their physical, mental, and emotional capacities. That this weighted and needy stone thrown at their tower is enough to topple the entire structure.

That revealing his troubles will help Seungcheol see that he can do so, _so_ much better than a moody brat who can barely spend a day away from him.

And his destructive fears shake him to the very core.

He’d ask Minghao to send over the schematic diagram for emotional transfers, but he remembers that they’re his friends, not his relationship counselors. Moreover, Chan should know how to express himself better by now. Being a dancer is pointless if he can’t convey the one thing that adds life and color to every performance.

“Alright. I’ll figure it out,” he responds, manifesting the hope deep inside him.

Hansol must have taken control of his phone again because it’s his voice that cautions, “Don’t overthink it, Pink! Just make use of the big meat sack in your skull and that silly little lump in your chest and you should be fine. Seungcheol hyung is a good guy.”

He smiles a little, a small weight off his shoulders, knowing that he’s in good (and kinky) hands. “He really is.”

“Aww, it really is true love!”

“You’ve been watching too many princess movies, Sol,” the oldest’s voice filters back in. “Chan, tell your boyfriend to cancel his Disney+ subscription or I’m personally going to read to him all my thriller-tragedy novels.”

Hansol undoubtedly protests, Minghao sighs anew, and Chan giggles, eternally grateful for his support system.

After they share their brief adieu and his many, many thanks, the call comes to an end and the silence in the unit ricochets louder than his own heartbeat. Without his friends there to encourage him, his confidence slowly wanes. Chan’s hesitance doubles the longer he tries to think it over, selecting his moments.

Rationally, a triumvirate of options is available. Post-sex is definitely out of the equation considering his propensity to pass out after his third nut and during sex is absolutely inappropriate, already anticipating a quick ice-to-water blue balls situation. Which only leaves him with the dreaded pre-sex choice, which is not exactly his favorite option but the only option reasonably available.

However, if he wants the absenteeism cycle to end, he has to suck it up and take it like a man. And, if that means sucking his daddy’s cock like a chew toy and riding him until Mingyu reprimands him for being too reckless again, then so be it. He was already planning on doing that anyways.

9 PM. Seungcheol would be due home in a little over three hours based on experience. Scanning the room, past their portraits and miniature vanity, his eyes land on his closet of day-after clothes and other… useful items.

Threading through the drawer, he looks behind him for good measure, as if he could be caught if he wasn’t being careful, and sets aside his monotone boxer briefs to reveal the lingerie he had purchased using the credit card the older gave him ‘for emergencies.’ _This is definitely an emergency_ , the younger thinks, his asshole missing the burn of velvety skin and entirely sick of glass penetrating him.

He’s overjoyed that the older is surprisingly terrible at personal finances, which should be worrying since he’s an _auditor_ for Pete’s sake, because there’s no other way he could explain how his credit card bill skyrocketed from a single, naughty transaction. Blame it on spending too much time with Junhui, the catboy downstairs, but his fellow sugar baby was onto something when he explained to him exactly how queen cats entice their mates. Aside from the desirable posture, presentation was essential. Simply put, flaunt all the curves and bends while wearing underwear that is intended more to accentuate than to protect.

“I’m telling you; it _always_ works. I bought this new pair of lace panties in his favorite color the other week and I couldn’t get him off me for three days,” Junhui had told him about a couple of weeks back when Chan was offering the couple yet another bowl of untouched kimchi stew.

“I don’t know about this, hyung,” he mutters, scratching the back of his neck as he mulls over the concept of putting on lady’s underwear to seduce his gay boyfriend into bed with him. The logic just wasn’t there. “How good are my odds at success?”

The older sugar baby rubs his chin in thought. “Well, I’m not the best at statistics, so I can’t give you a ballpark estimate. But I can tell you that it’s Plan A in my alphabet plan.”

“Lingerie is Plan A? What’s Plan B then?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never had to use it,” he plainly declares, smirking with a wink.

And that’s how Chan found himself in Jihoon’s apartment with Junhui, scrolling through a woman’s clothing store app on his phone and selecting what could only be described as desperation incarnate. Well, desperation in- _cloth_ -ate.

Feeling exposed, he rushes to shut the blinds by the windows and the balcony door before he slips on a petite red thong. It’s not the first time he tried on the lace, but the sensation on his bum is one he constantly has to adjust to. Looking in the vanity mirror, he grins at himself, proud of the progress the squats have brought in. To test, he hops in place, his plump ass bouncing from the movement and the thong hiding snugly between the cheeks. And he knows it shouldn’t excite him the way it does, but he’s already half hard. However, a part of him feels like he needs more weapons in his arsenal.

Back at the drawer, he fishes out the fishnet thigh highs, Junhui’s suggestion and apparent ‘secret weapon.’ Admittedly, when the catboy had asked him if he liked it, he lied through his teeth and told him that he did. But truth be told, the only rush he felt came from the fear of ripping the expensive garments because of his thunder thighs rather than exhilaration from having his daddy rip the thigh highs off his aching legs. After several failed attempts of aligning the heel to his own and thousands of calories burned from specifically forcing himself _not_ to flex his thighs, the fishnet warmly cushions his pride and joy, the deep black contrasting his fair skin.

Next, he explores the jewelry box on the vanity. His collection had exponentially grown with Seungcheol’s success and, along with it, an inverse relationship with his amount of time available. And he knows guys like Seungkwan and Soonyoung would be thrilled to receive gifts of this grandeur and luxury from their boyfriends, but he’s not really the material type (this time, Madonna, meet the sock). A fading smile on his lips, he equips the pearl necklace and silver bangles, less recent presents, finishing the gold rush with his most recent addition, a pair of diamond earrings. His stomach twists as the gem on his ears sparkle, his heart clenching at the thought that this may be the only set of diamonds he’ll ever receive from the older.

To complete the ensemble, he sneakily explores Seungcheol’s closet, going through his collection of expensive suits and ties (of multiple purposes), and locates the older’s favorite oversized _Speedhunters_ hoodie. The sex appeal is definitely not obvious, the jacket full of frayed threads and faded colors, but it’s the possessiveness that it encourages when Chan puts the item on that the younger needs.

Because there’s nothing like some tasteful, kinky, and possessive smashing and crashing to suture the possible horror that could arise from Chan causing more trouble like the burdensome sugar baby that he is.

Scanning his appearance in the mirror one last time, he sighs tiredly. The transformation to human incubus was more upsetting than he had first imagined.

To curve the worry and torment, the younger makes his way to the kitchen to down a lick of brandy. Or maybe a few fingers. Fine, a cup. No, a glass. With a _very_ deep basin. Needless to say, Chan’s already forgotten what he’s doing on the countertop and why he’s in the cast of Toy Story, every inanimate object in sight practicing locomotion.

By some magic, he makes it back to the king-sized bed in one piece, still semi-presentable and ass on full display. Circle back to a few hours earlier, he’s in the exact same position he was in when he received the news of Seungcheol’s no show. Chan scrolls through his phone, ignoring the older’s text messages for the second time that evening, and clicks on the pseudo-calculator app.

Upon encoding his simple password, the date he first met Seungcheol, he’s greeted warmly by his collection of bed workout videos. Always one to monitor his performance, the younger enjoyed the idea of filming sex tapes with the older so that he could find out areas he could improve on. Leave it to chapter 3 of “How to Be the Best Sugar Baby” book to teach Chan that the key to keeping one’s partners on their toes is constant self-improvement.

Chan watches with rapt attention at the collection of videos, one thousand and eighty pixels of raunch, salacity, and fantasy fulfillment. Tied with silk on the bed, up against the wall, atop the stairs, out in the balcony during winter, inside Seungcheol’s office that one time the older had to work late and the younger had a pre-lab to accomplish and they celebrated beating their internal deadlines by beating each other’s meats – each one was a treasure chest of desire and indulgence to which he was the primary audience of. And, with his daddy’s inbred competitive nature, all the younger had to do was comply in order to be sent to the heavens.

It’s been years since they first met one another, yet he can’t help but lose his sanity every time the older unbuttons his own dress shirt, revealing the tan skin and hardened abs insulated by million won fabrics. His mouth watering, he traces his vision along the gentle curves of Seungcheol’s body, breath hitching at every muscle that tightens as he rips off whatever pathetic article of clothing that foolishly decided to remain on Chain’s skin. And, as much as he savors the more explosive parts of the meal, the appetizer is always the one that sets the mood. _Work on your foreplay_ , the younger mentally notes down.

He maintains his hawk eyes, scanning every detail to catch ones he could utilize later. For instance, the videos taught him that Seungcheol likes it when he squeezes his biceps when riding him, elongation duly expected. Or that accidentally yelling out ‘daddy’ or ‘yours’ quickens the pace, dominance and possessiveness fanning the flames, and that butterfly kisses tapers the speed down. Monitoring also showed him all the older’s erogenous zones – between the thighs, the small of his back, the nape – all areas he frequents when he wants his daddy to feel all the pleasure he feels when a massive flagpole inserts itself into his unclaimed land.

The more videos he goes through, the harder it is to contain the excitement coursing through his veins, throbbing erection peeking out of the thong and leaking pre-cum onto his stomach. It would be so easy to reach down and give into temptation, but he grips the sheets to avoid a scolding. _Daddy doesn’t like it when you play with yourself without him_ , he points out as his toes curl at the unattended problem. While he had been allowed to go on solo space missions on his own these past few weeks, Seungcheol always too worn out from the office to do anything about it, the set-up is different when he’s expecting company, more so when he wants to conserve as much energy and semen as possible.

And even with the day’s exhaustion catching up to him and his undeniably tipsy state, Chan’s determined to wait up for the older.

As he quickly exhausts his collection, frowning when he notes that the last one was dated more than two months ago, his dick continues to pulse, screaming for attention. There was a mere two hours left until midnight yet the burning urge to release was becoming unbearable. Should it worry him that the mere sight of Seungcheol and his flushed bodies, writhing and thrusting against one another, fries his circuitry and resolve faster than Hansol’s ability to lose all interest? Maybe. But he fucking _loves_ it.

Chan knows he needs all his power if he wants to talk things out with the older, more so if it leads to heated apology sex, and he can’t exactly do that if he fires one out of three rounds from his revolver. So, with haggard breathing and sheen of sweat covering his legs, he scrolls down to the bottom of the pile to temper the flames.

Their first sex tape was not exactly a pornographic chef d’oeuvre. The angle is a hundred degrees of mistakes, the lighting is more characteristic of a doctor’s waiting room than a kink-fueled daydream, and all the Apink posters in the backdrop of his campus dorm room leaves nothing to be desired; all the reasons why he rarely even glances at the thumbnail, let alone watch the entire debacle. _At least the audio was great_ , he mollifies.

It was shot around the six-month period of their relationship, when Seungcheol was still a manager at his auditing firm and Chan was a freshman in college, not yet accustomed to the university life and the idea of having a boyfriend almost ten years his senior. To call previous him shy would be an understatement. To liken him to Seungkwan trying to approach his crush, Mingyu, during their pharmacy history class to ask for his name would be dead on the money.

Thinking back on it now, the younger is not entirely sure how they broached the topic to begin with. Seungcheol had always been a firm believer in the principle of Concupiscent Idiosyncratic Honesty or, to put it simply, ‘tell me your kink, and I’ll tell you mine.’ The moment had snuck up on him when he least expected it, after an amazing date off-campus no less, his guard down as he laid his head on his daddy’s chest, enjoying the autumn breeze and orange leaves in the park.

“Do you like being filmed?” the older asked him almost blandly that same afternoon as they progressed through a game of 20 Questions.

And, since the tone of his voice was devoid of any flavor, the same tone a person uses when talking about the bills or requesting to change the radio station, the younger didn’t think too far into things when he responded with, “Yeah, I love seeing myself on camera.”

On the surface, Seungcheol’s heartbeat accelerated. “Really now? How do you imagine yourself being filmed, baby?”

“I’m not too sure,” he shrugs, eyes trained on the several couples passing by, holding hands. Inspired, Chan intertwines his fingers with the other, leaving the linkage on his chest. “Soonyoung always wants us to record all our rehearsals so we know which parts we can fix or where the power goes down.”

“So, until this point, you’ve only ever been filmed in a group?”

“There are the videos I take when I practice my solo routines, but I don’t think those really count since no one ever sees them.”

Seungcheol cards through his hair and the younger smiles when he feels the faint sniffs of his apple shampoo. “I would love to see them. Only if you’d let me, of course.”

“I would love to show them to you, but they’re not anything interesting, daddy,” he comments, peering up into the other’s chocolate eyes that perfectly blend with their wooden environment. Well, the woodiest in this part of the city and outside of the bedroom.

“What are you talking about? As long as you’re in the film reel, it’s always interesting, Channie,” the older returns, poking his side. “And fun,” another poke is shred and, this time, the strength elicits a fit of giggles. “And exhilarating, and delightful, and beautiful-“

“Hyung, hey! No, stop-” Chan barely huffs in protest, failing to shield his waist from a flurry of attacks. “You’re going to inflate my ego!”

“And what’s wrong with that, baby? You’re gorgeous and worthy of all praise.”

Each compliment comes with a finger to the most sensitive portion of his figure, the younger shaking to set himself free yet caged in by strong arms. Laughter bubbles out, bubblegum sweet and smooth, and he savors the feeling of all the looks passers-by send them. Something of fondness, understanding, and want, the same kind of look Chan used to give couples when he was still one-half of a chopstick set.

And then there is also the flattery itself that works wonders in kindling the fire in his belly. He doesn’t have to say it out loud for the older to know how much he likes it, they’re first time together sufficient in revealing that secret in rivulets of hot, sticky white. Plus, the dancer is more than certain the older can feel his half-hard erection from where his boner is pressed against the other’s thigh when their lips reconnect their souls, gentle and unhurried and highly contrary to his throbbing dinosaur.

Seungcheol holds his cheek with his warm palm when they part for air, seemingly outlining the curves of his nose, his eyes, his smile. The older bridges their foreheads together, beaming bright when he asks, “Do you want to film a sex tape with me?”

‘Surprised’ would be the mildest of words to describe his shock. Perhaps a one-word modifier for ‘earth-shattering, eye-opening, heart-stopping consternation with a mermaid’s teardrop of arousal.’ “Wha-what?” Chan stutters, butterflies fluttering all about his body.

“A sex tape,” the older repeats, smile still steady as if he were discussing a meet-up with his parents and not an act that would definitely put him on the parental blacklist. “I thought you liked seeing yourself on camera, Channie.”

The dancer blushes a deep crimson, ears red like a Christmas light. “I do, but n-not in that way!”

“Alright, but don’t you ever wonder sometimes what we look like when we’re having sex?”

“Shh, hyung! There are people around us,” The younger is quick to cup the other’s mouth, no longer grateful for the stares that come their way.

Chuckling, the older takes the hand and places a chaste kiss there, very Prince Charming and Christian Grey all at once. “We don’t have to do it if you don’t want to,” Seungcheol informs him, indoor voice in check, “but I just wanted to be honest with you when I say that it’s something that I’m interested in. How about you, baby? Aren’t you the least bit curious?”

The younger looks at the precious and innocent yellow daisies nearby when he replies, blushing, “N-no.”

“Really, Channie?” Seungcheol smirks, smug at how much he can read the other. “If you’re being honest with me, why can’t you look at me in the eyes when you say it?”

“Because!”

“’Because’ what, baby?”

Because, truth be told, if he were to meet eyes with his daddy, Chan would have to face the obstinate fact that he absolutely _adores_ the idea of filming a sex tape with Seungcheol. The entire concept of being able to revisit every deep pelvic thrust, hoarse moan, purposeful hand exploring the curves of his body whenever he feels like is already sending his brain into Mach 5 speed overdrive.

And did he say ‘brain’? He really meant ‘penis.’

But he doesn’t allow his mind to wander there, the boiling vat of inappropriate thoughts and lustful well wishes a completely out of coverage area. Moreover, he doesn’t allow himself to think about seeing exactly how the older wrecks him with his massive cock when the younger is on his back, on his hands and knees, or hopping on said massive cock, the accompanying full lips marking him on the expanse of melanin. And, twice over, he doesn’t allow himself to think about witnessing _himself_ on the receiving end, a heat congregating in his nether regions at the prospect of his strained abs, round ass, massive thighs, satisfied mewls, and the multiple pulses of cum that he knows will make an appearance because his daddy is never pleased with just one round (and neither is he).

In the entirety of his sex-addled processing system (that’s his dick, by the way), he’s more than willing, ecstatic even, to film a sex tape with the older. Yet, in the recesses of his rational thinking, Chan fears that he might not be ready for it yet. That the baby fat on his stomach isn’t ready to be captured on video. That he hasn’t found the perfect haircut to flaunt for the camera lens. That his flexibility isn’t at its peak just yet.

To make matters worse, he knows his face wasn’t made to be immortalized on crisp pixels. He doesn’t have Hansol’s and Wonwoo’s rugged handsomeness or Soonyoung’s and Seungkwan’s cuter sculpture. Chan is simply Chan and he’s unsure of where he lies on the beauty scale, whether he’s a 17-carat diamond or a dirty piece of pyrite. The only thing he’s confident about is that every perfectionist cell in his body can’t have him looking messier than he already is.

Scolding himself, he pouts and pointedly stares at the daisies to subdue the tent in his jeans. Because there’s nothing sensual about daisies, right? Daisies are the flower of kind and innocent affection. Flowers of many petals, petals which you pluck to reveal one’s love for another. Reveal and expose, like when Seungcheol takes all his clothes off and rips his underwear open so that he can fuck the younger completely raw-

 _Shit_ , Chan groans internally. If even fucking _flowers_ can turn him on right now, his defenses will surely crumble at his daddy’s call for his name.

“So, Channie, what do you say?”

The younger whimpers and hides his face on the broad chest in front of him. Musk and rosewood overcome his senses and he feels physically weak for the man.

“Don’t you want to tell daddy what you think?”

Another whine slips out, grumbling at how the third-person reference always pushes the right buttons. The dancer shakes his head in response.

Above him, Seungcheol exhales softly. “It’s alright, baby. Like I said, we don’t have to do it if you don’t want to. I didn’t think you would agree anyways-“

“No!” the younger opposes, leaving his hiding spot. “I-I want to, daddy.”

The older tilts his head, brushing the fringe out of Chan’s eyes. “It really is okay, sweetheart. If you’re uncomfortable with it, it’s not anything we have to pursue.”

Chan shakes his head again. “But I’d love to film a sex tape, more so that it’s with you, Seungcheol hyung.” His daddy smiles his gummy smile, and he can’t help but reciprocate. “I just need some time to prepare for it. Is that okay, daddy?”

“Of course, baby,” the older affirms with a peck on his lips. “Take all the time you need. I don’t want to rush you. I want it to be as amazing as you envision it to be.”

And patient his daddy was. It took three months of a strict diet and skipped meals, long-winded yoga and Pilates sessions, and having to bear through Saturdays with Seungkwan trying on whatever hair product and miracle facial cream on him, but Chan finally felt prepared to strip down in front of the camera. The couple had purposely waited for Hansol to go on one of his several cross-country album hunts, the man in question disappearing off the face of the Earth for a couple of days, to set their plan into motion.

Seeing Seungcheol’s iPhone set-up in the corner, slightly inconspicuous yet a blaring reminder of the weight on his shoulders, caused the twitch in his leg to return, beads of sweat already coagulating in his forehead. However, the younger chose to bear through his stage fright, losing himself in the music of the trills of plunge and embrace, their heartbeats and their heaven-bound crescendo, and the epic cadenza of nimble and genial punishment palms that grip and squeeze every inch of untamed overgrowth that thrashes at the vibrato that resonates in his constitution.

The older could read him like a sentence but always makes sure to cherish each noun, verb, and adjective, how each word completes an incomparable thought. In essence, sex with Seungcheol was always a contradiction. Kisses were hungry yet sated while thrusts were flights of gravity, breaking the fundamentals of physics with how Chan could feel the force in the pit of his stomach. The single bed that houses his profusion of veritable wanking fantasies, and now their heated skin glued at the hardest and most open points, hardly offers any cushioning from the pain in his scalp from being slammed against the headboard, although the sensation is a composition that he warmly welcomes with his first and second orgasm.

But every symphony must come to an end, a reality he faces as his energy and precision tapers down and the nervousness begins to rise. Chan tries not to think about the lens on him, but just the knowledge that his current performance, sloppy and highly unbecoming of his training, is being engraved for him to bear witness to doesn’t sit well with him.

Amid riding the world’s sturdiest baguette, Chan sees his belly, not yet firm with a washboard, bouncing heavily as he does. In the body mirror to their side, his hair is disheveled, cluttered beyond recognition, and every part of his body appears so, so _wrong_. His thighs are fat but not meaty like he knows them to be and his back muscles are flimsy pockets of muscles that dangle behind him and his biceps barely have any volume or mass unlike his daddy who’s built like Hercules with a face handsome enough to blind Medusa but somehow contorts as if he isn’t enjoying what the younger is doing anymore and, _oh god_ , what if he hates what’s happening and the entire situation that’s very unsatisfactory and shoddy and just a complete derection-

“Hey, hey, baby,” Seungcheol calls, rising to meet the dancer halfway. Thrusts unrelenting, he pushes the errant strands that block the other’s vision. “Are you okay? What color?”

 _I’m not okay, daddy; please don’t hate me for doing awfully tonight_ , the younger thinks. His heartbeat continues to accelerate yet the source is surely not from epinephrine. Anxiety builds anew and goosebumps litter his skin in a foolish attempt to calm him down, his body trembling with jitters. Chan takes one more look at the camera and falters, eyes prickling with the promise of tears. Looping his arms around the older’s back and hiding in the slope of shoulder muscles, he whispers, muted and small, “Y-yellow, please.”

“Yellow?” the older inquires almost disbelievingly because the younger _never_ replies with anything but bright, colorful, bursting-at-the-seams neon green. When Chan nods, Seungcheol massages his dorsal muscles and kneads his thighs, imploring him to mitigate the pace. “Alright, sweetheart. Let’s get you down from there,” he utters as he leads the younger onto the sheets.

Once laid out and equally pliant, Chan refuses to meet the other’s eyes, irises trained towards his drug indexes and lab kit, because he knows that one look is all it takes for him to crumble and melt like the chocolate eyes that search for his. Their evening had been splendid up to this moment and he hates how it only takes a simple ruffle on the sheets to ruin the entire parchment.

“Channie, hey. Please look at me. Are you okay?” Seungcheol requests, his movements matching the color demanded. Instead of the taut grips and animalistic pulls of the video’s earlier progression, the older caresses the dancer’s curves delicately. “Why won’t you look at me, sweetheart?”

Chan shakes his head, eyelids cumbersome and withdrawn to protect himself.

“Do you want to stop, baby? Won’t you tell your daddy, hmm?”

He whimpers, voice pathetic and skin flushed. Try as he might, he can never reject his sugar daddy’s requests. However, Chan soon comes to regret caving in because, as soon he meets the troubled expression that swims in the infinity of Seungcheol’s eyes, he tips over, resolve broken and tears falling without restraint.

“Hey, hey! Whoa, what’s wrong, Channie?” the older appeals. The suddenness of the outburst causes the thrusts to stop, but the thick cock remains inside knowing wholeheartedly that the younger likes feeling full. “Why are you crying? Did I do something wrong?”

“N-no, daddy. I-it’s n-not you,” he stutters, inconsolable. Breathing uneven and snot dripping from his nose, Chan thinks he’s never looked more disgusting than he does right now.

“Breathe, baby. Slowly now, alright? Do it with me.” Seungcheol manages to direct the other’s attention to him, distracting him with a temple message. Carefully, the older takes him through the breathing exercises, both arms caging him in yet leaving enough space for oxygen to fit in the molecular gaps. Notes of spearmint permeate his nose, the older always making it a point to wash up before their altercations, and the younger wavers at how his daddy is the epitome of perfection, caring and considerate with suitable amounts of carnality.

But he also hates how perfect his daddy is and how… how… how he knows he will never be perfect like him. Perfect enough _for_ him, perfect enough to be _with_ him.

Once the younger has calmed down slightly, Seungcheol lands his plush lips on the swell of his pout, somehow managing to transfer air _into_ him. “Talk to me, Channie. You’re starting to worry me.”

“I’m s-sorry, da-daddy. I-I’m sorry,” he stumbles on his words as a fresh batch of liquid honesty drips down. He bites his lips to stifle his pants, but emotions are truly an unstoppable force of nature, the sound of his pained cries bouncing from wall to wall.

“What?” the older inquires, eyebrows knit in interwoven confusion and concern. “Why are you apologizing, baby?”

“I’m ruining eve-everything,” he mutters, closing his eyes in self-frustration and his inability to face the other’s impending disappointment. “I’m not do-doing good enough and t-the video m-must look s-so bad-“

“Hey, hey, Channie. Don’t think about the video for now,” Seungcheol consoles, wiping the trail of tears with a heated thumb. “That’s really what you think? That you’re wrecking this entire experience?”

“I-It’s the truth, daddy! I know i-it is. I could barely focus on riding you properly a-and the s-sex tape must look so awful n-now.”

Above him, the older breaks into giggles before it morphs into complete laughter, hearty baritone reverberating, and Chan feels highly indignant. What was so funny about his misery? At the tip of his patience, he opens his mouth to voice out his anger only for luscious lips to jumble up the words into moans, lewd and needy. The pace is mellow and meadow yellow, each movement intended to relearn the patterns that comprise the slopes which fall into a gentle smile. Teeth pick at his bottom lip and he readily opens, a determined tongue easily sliding in to explore his oral cavity.

Chan finally opens his eyes when they part for a breath and the sight of the kindest set of eyes looking down at him set off a marching band drumbeat in his heart, rendering him breathless. Seungcheol descends to land a tender peck on his forehead and scents his hair. “My precious and lovely Channie,” he whispers, midnight quiet like an incantation. “You could never ruin anything even if you wanted to.”

“W-what do you mean, daddy?” his voice quivers, shaking like his heart. The words that come from the older barely register in him, their honesty still a mystery. He can hardly see through his glassy vision, let alone comprehend any contradiction to what he knows is a solid fact.

“You’re absolutely amazing, baby,” Seungcheol commends, a spark to awaken Chan’s not-so-little piggy that had roast beef. The roast beef being the massive punishment palms that easily engulf said piggy like pigs in a blanket. “I don’t know where you picked up that you were doing so poorly, but I can assure you that everything you’ve been doing up to this point was literally perfect.”

His perfectionist side screams into his ears, causing him to go deaf. “You d-don’t have to lie t-to me, daddy,” he sniffles, stomach swooping at every inhalation. “I could barely keep up with you and my stomach was bouncing everywhere and I looked so… so ug-“

“Hey, don’t you dare finish that thought,” the older kindly scolds, a calmness above the blaring sirens. “If there were some magical way for me to change your self-image, I would do it because I hate that you think you’re chubby or weakly performing or that word on the tip of your tongue where it shouldn’t belong.” He scents the younger’s neck, running his nose until the shell of his ear. “Every inch of you is beautiful and ravishing and sexy-“

“Hyu-hyung,” Chan whimpers, moaning and feeling the heat in his cheeks, the elongation of his mechanical pencil.

“And I hate that you can’t see what I see, because I count my lucky stars every day that I’m with someone as stunning as you, sweetheart.”

“Daddy,” the younger blubbers, bottom lip quivering and tears pouring out. “P-please do-don’t…” The words are cluttered, a humble disarray of his feelings bubbling out like word vomit. Heart clenching, chemical dread, a treacherous ingredient, is poured into his bloodstream.

Seungcheol peppers his forehead with sweet kisses and runs his fingers along the other’s black mop of hair. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t tell me things y-you don’t mean.”

The lush lips that express warm affection slips into one of uneasiness and Chan flinches, despising how he’s the cause of it. “Do you really believe I’m being insincere?”

Chan’s stomach twists uncomfortably, a fresh set of tears accompanying his unstifled sobs. “I’m sorry, daddy…”

Seungcheol sighs, hot breath on feverish skin. “Please don’t apologize, Channie. Never apologize for speaking your mind. I know I might not be able to completely understand what you’re feeling or what goes on in that fantastic mind of yours,” the older taps his forehead, extracting a hint of a smile, and continues, “but I just want you to know that everything you feel is valid. However, that doesn’t always necessarily mean it’s true, you hear me?”

He nods despite the uncertainty. As if able to sense his internal turmoil, the older finds his hands and intertwines their fingers to their side, certain and precious, enveloping them in a tiny universe that belongs to them in the mere space between their celestial bodies.

“Do you trust me, sweetheart?” his daddy asks, and the affirmative response comes faster than the younger’s hand on his disco stick. “Can you look at the body mirror for me, please?”

Instantly, a dark scarlet blush washes over him, hairs rising. That’s the last thing he needs right now, to be reminded of his discordant physique and grisly appearance. Chan shakes his head and fears for the incoming despondency.

Except it never comes. In reciprocation, the older’s sunny smile shines on his frozen wasteland of doubt. “Please, baby? Trust me on this one.”

And he’s never been the best at fighting his daddy’s request, compounded with doting squeezes to his hands and the pronounced yet subtle motion in his ass. Turning to Hansol’s Star Trek-themed body mirror (why does Spock have to stare back at him with the Vulcan salute reminiscent of someone else’s preparatory invasion tools that make his dick live long and prosper?), the younger winces at his figure, too many curves and too little planes. Where did his abs run off to? What about the concealer he put on to hide his pimples and beauty marks? And how did all of Seungkwan’s hair products suddenly vanish from his scalp, leaving him with the unfortunate Sonic the Hedgehog haircut? The whole image is entirely-

“Beautiful,” Seungcheol praises from his position, chocolate eyes aligning with his gaze in the reflective surface. “I’ve never met anyone more ethereal.”

A chill overcomes his skin, numbing every nerve on his body. It’s as if he’s paralyzed, immobile and helpless against the older’s movements, their shared heartbeat and connected writhing bodies. “What?”

“Just look at yourself, baby. Pretty stomach, firm abs, juicy thighs,” the older comments, gritting his teeth as if to curve temptation. “I can’t wait to eat you all up. Which I already do, but I can never get enough of you.”

Pre-cum begins to leak from the stimulation on his cock and the mental prods at his kink. Pants escape his lips, hips undulating and seeking friction. “S-Seungcheol, daddy…”

“I mean it, Channie. You’re so irresistible and you don’t even know it,” the older comments alongside a trail of blossoming reds and deep purples on his neck. “When I’m alone at home, I can’t wait until your classes finish just so I can have you all to myself. You know I’m a generous man, but with you, I get so selfish.”

“Really?”

“Really, _really_ , baby.” To prove his claims, he places an abundance of kisses all over his face, the recipient giggling from the attacks. “I hate it when you’re away from me because that means I can only think about being with you. And, when I think about you,” the older trails off, a rosy blush on his cheeks.

Chan smiles genuinely and curiously. “Tell me, daddy.”

Seungcheol chuckles and faceplants on his shoulders, engulfing them in a haze of floral rosewood. “When I think about you, even just getting to hold your adorable hands like this, I get too excited that…” he sighs, shaking his head embarrassingly, but supplies nonetheless, “well, let’s just say it makes me regret wearing tight slacks all the time in the office.”

“No way!”

“I mean it,” his daddy groans painfully though also fondly. “Remember when you were trying on those suits from my tailor for your presentation and sent pictures for me to check? I had to cancel my weekly meeting with my staff because I couldn’t get the general to surrender. That’s _your_ power over me, baby. Just thinking about you in a tight dress shirt and a custom-fit silk suit all for me rip off you,” the older growls and sucks a weighted mark on the younger’s neck. “Can barely hold in the urge to leave work so I can take you somewhere private and ram my dick up your snug and needy hole.”

Chan’s brain short circuits, electricity zapping his aching cock to full hardness. All from a little dirty talk. That’s _his_ power on him, he supposes. “Daddy, p-please keep talking,” he mewls, bucking up into the older’s abs for any fragment of pressure. He instinctively loops his legs around Seungcheol’s back, wanting him closer and needing that weight to pound into him farther. The grip on his fingers tighten to the third degree yet he can hardly bring himself to complain.

“Look at you warming up for me, baby. You’re so concentrated and focused that all your muscles flex so vigorously. Shit, you’re fucking delicious, Channie.” The arti-sex-an resumes his work, splotches of reds and pinks on the tan canvas. “I’m so lucky to be the only one who gets to taste all of you. You’re the entire dinner course and it’s more than what I could have ever asked for, to have a sexy man like you that I can spoil and take care of.”

Tears of sensitivity and stimulation flow in streams and his mouth hangs open due to his muscle’s inability to cope with every point of pleasure the older abuses – his trembling chest aching for oxygen, the lump of his Adam’s apple that bobs with every heartbeat, his pulsating prostate unrelentingly stricken.

No one had ever told him those things with this level of sincerity, this degree of confidence in every word that left their lips. He notices it in the older’s unabridged baritone, the steadiness of the chocolate irises that pierce his conscience, and the affectionate thumb rub on each of his hands. Like a key entering its lock (or a penis to an asshole, but head out of the gutter for a moment), a door creaks open for even just the smallest of fractions, letting in the light inside a dark alcove of his subconscious.

The light is warm, oh-so warm, the first perception of heat after years of his frozen condition. And while its strength may not be enough to thaw away a conglomerate of self-doubt at an instant, the drops of water that quench a thirst he never knew existed is a beginning he welcomes with open arms.

“I love you, my beautiful Channie. You’ve got me hooked and reeled in with your quick wit and mystifying soul, and I’m eager to freefall deeper into your infinity.”

Butterflies wreak havoc in his belly and signals blare their red emergency lights, akin to his crimson cheeks. After years of hearing those three words shared between his parents, his friends’ partners-in-procreation, and all the ratty romance-comedy movies he shamelessly binges, that’s the first time he’s ever heard the phrase directed at him. “What a-are you saying, Seungcheol hyung?”

“I’m crazy about you, baby. So, you can balloon up or lose another 10 pounds, become anything you dream of, and nothing would change in my eyes. Your spirit is unmatched and paralleled only by your passion and there is _no one_ in the world that’s just like you. No one who’s laid out like this, all this make-up on your body but still stripped down and authentic. No one else who is like my Channie who is funny and bubbly and honest and handsome and one-of-a-kind, the only one who could make me want someone so much.”

“I-I…” The words fail him at the worst of moments, thoughts running a mile a minute past their processor and out of his lacrimal glands as tears. Quickly, the older wipes the trail and aligns their gazes, eyes romantic and swirling with devotion.

“I hope you can get it through your head,” Seungcheol kisses him languidly on the forehead, smelling apple orchards and vulnerability, “that I’m in love with every tiny bit of you, sweetheart. Inside and out, dressed in layers or in nothing but your feelings, I am so helplessly and hopelessly in love with you.”

Clairvoyance. This must be what it feels like to experience clarity through a haze, to truly see the light at the end of a tunnel, a needle in humanity’s largest haystack. Because there is a one in a billion man, dreamlike and heaven-sent, on his skin that loves him for his entirety, beyond the superficial façade of confidence. A man who saw him, _really_ saw him, and only fell deeper in love.

His mind is all jumbled pieces and missing codes, Error 404 in the parietal lobe, because nothing registers anymore but chemical happiness, his neurotransmitters overflowing and pouring into their proper receptors.

“I love you, too, daddy,” the younger mumbles before his instincts take over and he swoops in, claiming the lips that have been taunting him for minutes now. His movements are ravenous at first, wanting to taste Seungcheol and to lap up every ounce of liquid affection as if they were volatile and could evaporate if he didn’t move fast enough. But when the older sneaks an arm around his back and gently cradles the back of his head closer to him, Chan is reminded of their titanium love line, releasing the reigns to assuage the pace to a moderate skip and hop, though his heart continues to ricochet in his chest.

Tongue-in-tongue, the older hikes him up higher on the twin-sized bed, thrusts sending him onto the headboard. Chan squeaks into the kiss, shameless moans decorating the room in their hormones. Naturally, the younger pushes down against the rocking drill hammer, clenching tightly, and his daddy’s vice grip almost breaks his fingers.

“ _Shit_ , Channie, the more you do that, the less I can control this urge to slam into your tight hole until you’re screaming for me, begging for more.” He smirks when he notices the dancer crashing his hips desperately onto his abs. “I’m trying my best to understand your sentiments, I really am, but I don’t think I can ever understand how you think that I could ever _not_ enjoy fucking you silly, baby.”

Chan manages to shake off the permanent slack on his mouth to muster a slightly comprehendible reply, panting to regenerate oxygen, “But y-you were making faces a-and…”

“That’s just because,” Seungcheol leaves the thought hanging, shaking his head with a grunt. “It’s stupid.”

“Aww,” he protests, “you can tell me, daddy!”

The older cracks an indulgent grin, dimples creased, fanning the sweaty fringe away from the younger’s eyes. “Channie, sweetheart, please don’t make me say it. If I tell you what it’s about, you’re going to think I’m crazy.”

“Please?” the younger pouts, irresistibly cute in the ways he knows the older can’t resist. “What is it, Seungcheol hyung?”

“God, you’re so beautiful and such a minx.” Nibbling on a puffed-out cheek, his daddy’s expression softens. “The only reason why I make those pained faces in the first place is because I have to distract myself from coming too early.”

“What?” Chan smiles, all giddy at the revelation. He naturally cups his mouth to subdue the noise, but his jubilation translates into playful kicks at forced exhalations, essentially cancelling the essence of masking the reaction. “Are you s-serious?”

Seungcheol flashes a pained face and the younger has a reason to believe it’s not from holding down the cork on his champagne bottle. “I told you not to make me say it. Now you’re going to go and tell your friends that I’m easy or something,” he chuckle-groans, an entirely new sound for them. “But, if you must know, I think about my overdue payrolls and income tax return statements in bed so that I don’t nut before you do.”

Chan guffaws, neck thrown back and back arching at Seungcheol’s mental cock ring. In retaliation, the older prods his sides, further eliciting a string of laughter from the dancer. Unable to control his movements, the younger accidentally sinks lower, plunging the hefty cock onto his bundle of nerves that send a carnival up and down his spine. The wanton cry he bellows is an odd mixture of Sex No. 5 perfume with a tint of Joy No. 9 lipstick, a combination he never thought possible yet fully in theme with the older’s revelation.

“I knew you were going to make fun of me,” his daddy grumbles, a classic pout curtaining his mouth and the younger just wants to kiss him senseless all over again.

“Don’t be mad, daddy. I didn’t mean to laugh _that_ much. I just never expected you to do something like that,” he grins and steals the glower with a smooch. The burglary appears to work, the grower’s lips treacherously curving up. “T-thank you for being honest with me. I love you, too, daddy. So much.”

“And I love you more.” Seungcheol works a number on the tense muscles all over his body, expression growing softer at the reciprocation. “Let’s talk more about this later, okay, baby? Don’t worry about the camera for now, just keep all your focus on me. I want to make this _really_ special for you.”

Present Chan puts his phone away, the lewd noises heard through the speakers from where the older hosts their next cum-tastic celebration. Like the former version of himself in the video, tears spill onto the satin sheets that encase his shivering body. Similarly, his stomach twists in every which way, though it wasn’t from discomfort. For the former, the older had simply pierced through his thermal exhaust port with his galactic cannon, causing a cascade of pleasurable and explosive reactions. For the latter, it’s the feeling of nostalgia, a splash of cold water on his newly awoken face, that keeps his gaze trained on the ceiling, already imagining their shadows dancing from the city lights below.

True to his horrendous memory, he had forgotten how special that first sex tape was for him, for the both of them. By all means, the content deviates from the pornographic and edges closer to the sentimental, but maybe that’s how it’s supposed to be remembered. For it was a landmark moment for them, a mark to their growing list of firsts. Their first time using a cellphone to record their sexcapades, his first time to cry during sex (that wasn’t from overstimulation or crocodile tears to taunt his daddy into pounding into him harder), the older’s first time to confess his love, his first time to admit the words he kept sprawled across his silent mind, and their first time to take a card from Junhui’s pile and exceed their known orgasm count limits by plus 1.

Even after their excursion, the older pampered him and made him feel special for surviving a stick of TNT up his ass. The big spoon purposely kept him wrapped in his warmth as they passed out from exhaustion. When morning came, the younger awoke to the smell of aromatic jasmine tea and a whopping plate of his favorite dinosaur chicken nuggets waiting for him. They spent their Sunday in their small bubble, the older coddling him until he felt comfortable to speak his truths.

Chan hates that it took him this long to realize a fact that was right smack in front of his pretty mug, that he made himself suffer through a painstaking evening when patience was always an option. Because Seungcheol really was a good man, good for him in every aspect. He could be honest with him without fear of judgement or prejudice and he could sleep soundly at night knowing that what he said always fell on perceptive ears. It’s more than he could have ever asked for in his seemingly small existence and impact in this lifetime.

And, as the cherry on his possibly indecent cream pie, the younger was assured that he was in possession of a love remarkably unconditional. Perhaps, by keeping that blooming rose in a glass dome in the west wing of his consciousness, scared of its inevitable wilt, he failed to remember that all flowers are meant to be celebrated and cherished under the glistening sunlight. Seungcheol proudly wore the younger’s rose on the boutonniere of his dress coat every day, and maybe Chan was overdue to wear the other’s on his wrist where it belonged, unafraid that it would ever fall off as long as he believed in its roots.

A voice rings in his ears, a call to his heart. _Tell him nothing but your feelings_ , he faintly hears. He doesn’t want to associate Minghao as his Jiminy Cricket, but he might as well have because his best friend always had a pertinent point. For he could _always_ be honest with his partner if he needed to be, split his brain open without worry that the other would take his cluttered reasoning and use it against him.

Space was a desolate place devoid of warmth, the months passing by where he was left alone to wander in the dark matter without a destination. But he had a choice, a choice to bridge the extra miles with his own power, knowing full and well how busy his daddy was and what his work environment was like. And, should he venture through that remaining space, fighting his own gravity in the process, Seungcheol would always open his airbase for Chan’s safe landing each and every time, safety guaranteed.

Wiping on his reddened eyelids with his sweater paws, the younger finds his resolve one more time that evening. Off the mattress, he slowly undresses himself from the hoodie of possessiveness and the lingerie of temptation, deeming them highly unnecessary. His heart beats calmly this time around, no longer grappling with dread of what’s to come, and instead anticipating a long-delayed conversation.

 _I want things to change_ , Chan firmly decides, _I want to be better_.

Putting away his wares and bearing only the diamonds dripping from his earrings, the determined sugar baby collects his phone and finally addresses the messages blinking in his inbox. With a satisfied smile, he deposits the unnecessary device in a safe spot, preparing for the other’s due arrival. Any minute now, Seungcheol would return to their penthouse. He knows by now that the older doesn’t appreciate technology when everything they need for this moment is raw and all-natural.

Chan settles back on the California king bed, opening the nightstand drawer for one final selection.

**Choi Seungcheol** :

Channie…

I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have lashed out on you like that. The year-end audit has just been a pain in my ass these past few weeks that I was wound up so tight. It was wrong for me to say those things when I also promised to be home early today.

I love you, my pretty Channie. I’ll make it up to you tonight, baby, I promise. I have something extra special for you. Can you hold out a little while longer for me? I’ll be back before you know it.

To answer your question, you can order whatever you feel like for dinner. Your credit card should still be functional. Dinner’s not what I’m excited to eat anyways. What do you say, sweetheart? Will you be alright for now?

Channie? Are my texts not coming through again?

Is something wrong? Did something happen over there? You know your daddy is a worrywart. Reply to me as soon as you can, baby. I love you.

The boss upstairs gave us 5 minutes before we move onto the final agenda of our meeting. What’s going on, Channie? Are you planning another surprise party for me? You know you don’t have to, baby. I don’t want other people in our apartment; I just want you tonight. I need you alone tonight.

Are you still there, baby? I’m going to give you a call.

Fuck, my 5 minutes are up. I’ll get back to you ASAP. Please contact me, baby. I’m worried about you. I love you.

I’m risking a lot to message you while Sungsoo is presenting in front of me, but my heart can’t handle it anymore. I need to know if you’re okay, sweetheart. Text me back?

Chan, if this is another one of your practical jokes, I don’t think it’s very funny. I’m genuinely worried about you.

**AAADaddy’s Finest** :

Waiting for you

So, you should probably come through

If you know what’s good for you

**Choi Seungcheol** :

Thank goodness, you’re alright. Did something happen, baby? What took so long for you to reply?

And what is this cryptic message you’ve sent me? Of course, I’m going to come through. The meeting just finished and we’re wrapping up here in the office, so I should be home soon. Give me 20 minutes, okay?

Channie?

Seungcheol sighs as he pockets his phone, making his way out of the elevator and into the humid parking lot. Fishing for his keys through his disaster of a briefcase, the metal jingles as it slips from his grip and lands on the asphalt. He nearly kicks his Mercedes-Maybach in frustration at all the wrong turns his evening took. That night was supposed to be a special night for Chan and him, but he managed to ruin it by putting work in front of the other yet again.

 _Fuck_ , _fuck_ , _fuck_ , he chants internally as he attempts to select the correct key from his prison warden collection of trinkets, hating his poor self-management.

“Calm down, Cheollie-ya,” someone singsongs from behind him, Jeonghan’s voice teasing and he’s obligated to roll his eyes. _Great_ , _Satan’s Angels are here_. “No one’s going to murder you if you don’t get into your car at this instant.”

“Yeah. Take your time to fit it in properly. You should know that by now, Seungcheol. You’re a top, right?” Jisoo challenges, caramel intonation sickeningly sweet.

He faceplants on the top of the still locked car door. “Can you go away please? I can take your torment sometime else. Just not tonight.”

“It’s okay, hyung. Don’t worry, I’ll keep them in check,” Seokmin reaffirms, reminding the exasperated one why he likes the newest and youngest partner the most. Arms looped around the waists of hell’s two most decorated agents, he asks, “Why are you in a rush, by the way? You’ve been antsy the whole day.”

“I had prior commitments to attend to that I wasn’t able to fulfill,” he puffs out his chest in formality, attempting another key only for it to fail again miserably.

Jisoo giggles. “Do you mean sex with that sugar baby of yours?”

“I _told_ you not to call him that! His name is ‘Chan,’” he hisses, unable to suppress the growl in his baritone. Seungcheol isn’t usually this quick to lose his temper, but the entire day forced him to the edge of his patience. “If you have nothing better to do, can you all just go home?”

“Alright, alright, we’ll put the kiddie gloves back on,” Jeonghan surrenders, approaching him to offer a genial rub on his back. “Just take a few moments to breathe before you get your knickers in a twist. What’s so special about tonight, anyways? As far as I know, it’s only a Tuesday night.”

Taking the other’s advice, he fills his lungs with oxygen to ground himself again. Resuming the filtration of useless side cabinet keys, he responds with, “It’s just a Tuesday night for _you_ , but today means something for me. And I don’t want to waste three minutes explaining it to you if you’re just going to make fun of me.”

“When have we ever made fun of you?” the oldest angel inquires, Seungcheol mustering up the most tired expression he easily accesses with the amount of stress he feels. “Okay, bad question. What I meant to say was that we won’t make fun of you _this time_ around because it’s obvious it’s more than just a tumble under the sheets.”

“What’s the special occasion anyways? Are you going to put a bun in his oven?” Jisoo chides, sliding his eyebrows suggestively.

“You’re going to bake with Chan at this ungodly hour?” Seokmin gasps in sincere shock and he can only wonder how a precious bean like him ended up with the likes of the corporate Bonnie and Clyde.

Before his head could explode from the Lord’s final test of his perseverance, he locates the correct key and successfully enters the vehicle to escape the devil’s clutches. The three of them tap on the tinted window to bid their farewells, the youngest of the bunch wishing him the best of luck with some pizza dough recipe, as they make their way to their own getaway car to do whatever it is those three do behind the closed door of their shared office. He’s not going to pursue an investigation into all the noise complaints they get mid-workday.

Once on the road, he tries to contact Chan to no avail. The younger isn’t one to ignore his phone calls like that, the person in question usually quick to respond to his messages, so this radio silence was more than deafening for him. On any normal day, he would feel worked up for standing on the short end of the cold stick, but he’s also on the wrong hemisphere in the loop of promises right now, so he can’t really complain. He vowed to be available that day and yet, there he was, just a minute away from his office building seven hours to the dot from when he had to send the dreaded raincheck. So, yeah, slap a whooping piece of duct tape on his fat lips should he choose to justify any of his actions that evening.

If he were being honest with himself, Seungcheol knows he hasn’t been the best sugar daddy, or boyfriend for that matter, for the past couple of months countable with his fingers. He’d spent more time camping out in his corner office than in the wilderness of his boyfriend’s tight caverns and that in itself is an issue for both parties. But it couldn’t be helped, he supposes. His workload as a partner only seemed to pile higher and higher on his plate and the meal was difficult to chew, the wrong type of dish he wanted in his mouth.

While he warned the younger that this situation was inevitable, he never thought it would lead to all those nights of terminated date nights or opening the mahogany door to catch Chan passed out on the living room couch, waiting for his arrival. So, he can’t even find any reason to be annoyed at the lack of replies he’s received all day considering his recent behavior. He’s sorta mad at himself, too.

Presents are the first item that comes to mind in his master scheme to seek forgiveness and to win back the affection of his lover, but he quickly marks that off as an option that can lead only failure. He’s seen it in the way the younger masks his disappointment when he receives yet another piece of gold or the latest Nike sneakers whenever the older wants to apologize, the way he hides his pout by turning his eyes into a smile, as if the adorable façade could distract Seungcheol from the pronounced decline of the lips he loves to kiss. He of all people should know by now that gift-giving was never the younger’s love language.

Recently, he’d been complacent, maybe even borderline lazy, when it came to his relationship. Chan was always the first one to send him encouraging texts (which may or may not include nude mirror selcas that make his crotch perform the entire Macarena) and to forgive him when he pathetically sends another mail courier with a gift-wrapped box of ‘I’m sorry, please don’t hate me’ essence, and he took that kindness for granted. He grips the steering wheel a little tighter, steps on the gas pedal slightly harder, at the idea of the younger crying himself to sleep without him and knowing that he’s the reason behind it.

Then there was the mysterious string of messages he received from the younger a little over an hour ago. He knows by now that his boyfriend has an inclination towards the theatrical, the number of acting classes he frequents and the older funds and his abundance of facial expression that he’s mastered on stage a show of this tendency, but the phrasing came to him almost like an ultimatum. Competitive, the older would usually jump at the opportunity to prove him wrong. However, with the way his supposedly magical Tuesday evening turned into a mundane Wednesday midnight, he frowns at his internal theory that the younger thought that the only way to get him home earlier was through a challenge.

Stopped by another red light a few blocks to his destination, Seungcheol sighs heavily with edginess, fingers tapping mindlessly on the wheel. His eyes flit to the car adjacent to him and the couple inside, one partner leaning their head warmly to the driver above the handbrake. The stretch must be killer on their neck, so they must really like the other to go through that pain just for a sweet gesture.

 _Chan would do the same_ , he thinks, heart yearning for his lover who always found the simplest ways to scramble his rational programming.

He misses his long drives with the younger, taking the roads less travelled and shutting off their phones just to enjoy the speed of the car and the expanse of their tiny infinity. How the younger would play with the fingers holding the gear shift before the older would interlock their fingers. How his boyfriend would never run out of interesting topics to discuss that ranges anywhere from the latest self-help book he purchased or a choreography he wants a second opinion on. How the dancer fully utilizes his flexibility to give him the sloppiest and most languid head when they reach a long, empty highway where the older can speed all the way up to the triple digits as he gets deep-throated.

It’s evident to him now that he won’t let the other slip away from him that easily, that he can’t stand having the younger bear with his incompetency and inability to love him right. Because he can always take more sick days from his supply or get yelled at by the big boss upstairs for his unsubstantial performance, but there is only one Lee Chan in this universe and Seungcheol doesn’t want to lose him on his own accord. He’s not going to allow them to drift apart just because he can’t find space for the most important person in his life in the vast span of a full day.

Every other appointment should simply find their chair in the waiting room outside from here on out; he’s unrolling a red carpet and pulling out all the stops for South Korea’s most precious boy.

And, to do just that, he has to be a better man for him. Work smarter and manage his time even better for him from now on. _For him_ , he contemplates, an involuntary grin curving his lips imagining the brightest smile and bubbliest laugh he’s ever seen, _it’s always been for him_. It was high time he reevaluated his priorities and determined the parts of his life truly worth keeping around.

The answer is simple – if he wants to take the relationship to the next level, he has to make sacrifices and agree on adjustments. He doesn’t need a relationship counselor that will swindle him to bankruptcy or an unbearable hour on Jeonghan’s therapy chair for advice on lessons he should be familiar with. Beyonce has a song about it, one he unabashedly plays on repeat in his earphones, and he never realized how fitting it is for his boyfriend’s preferences.

On the turn of the yellow light, he imagines having to choose between his eleven-digit salary, a myriad of shiny representations of his corporate success, and a life of security, comfort, and luxury, versus the smallest yet warmest palm on his, a strong pulse that races at the simplest of touches, which is accompanied by an exhilaration of something unknown and yet to be known.

On the turn of the green light, he takes that same hand with every fiber of his being, riding off into one of those predictable, comical sunsets he sees in all the romance-comedy movies Chan makes him sit through. It’s corny and overplayed and makes him shake his head like when he watches a child show off their ‘new talent’ of licking their elbows or doing half a handstand, but it’s also everything he could ever want with his lover.

To take a risk with the cards in his hands, to shoot his (cum) shot in the pitch-black dark night, to solidify a future where only Chan can be the pepper to his salt, the ssamjang in his bossam, the ginger that imparts spice and flavor to all his favorite dishes. He knows these metaphors and associations probably make no sense and only serve to fuel his physical and sexual starvation, but love makes him a little crazy like that.

Back in his apartment building, Seungcheol quickly paces from his Mercedes to the elevator, sweat collating in his dress shirt due to the rush. He used to enjoy the electronic ‘ding’ of the elevator on each level, but this time around, the sound serves only to worsen his anxiety at the lack of any response from Chan. After twenty missed calls, he’s plagued by his decision to stay at work that day, worrying that it might have been the final straw. But he keeps a firefly of hope alive in his hands since the last few messages he received, no matter how enigmatic, stated that the younger was in fact waiting for his return.

When he inputs the code to his penthouse, he’s greeted by the darkness of the living room, illuminated solely by streetlamps and neighboring buildings, and his heart immediately drops. Chan usually prefers to keep as many lights open as possible after the older had joked that the place was haunted with ghosts, so the crowd of down-turned switches was not the most hospitable welcoming party.

It’s evident that the dancer kept himself busy the entire evening in anticipation. The floor is polished and barren of any sign of their pre-sex clothing and appetizing aromas emanate from the kitchen, their dinner still neatly wrapped in their original delivery containers. He smiles, peaceful and beyond his control, at the fact that his boyfriend, who despises doing the chores, found the initiative to check out all the boxes on their Sunday morning to-do list.

But he deflates again after his preliminary search turns up empty, Chan not in any of his favorite hangout spots in their shared apartment. The sweat’s likely gone through his coat at this point and he feels repulsive from a combination of his uneasiness and exhaustion from the day. He tries dialing for the twenty first time, worried that the younger made his way back to his dorm room on campus since the older wasn’t making it back on-schedule. Groaning, he pockets the device when the dreaded pre-recorded voice tells him that the number cannot be reached at this time.

Seungcheol cranes his neck as he undoes his tie, walking towards the master bedroom to wash away his grizzly appearance. If he bathes quickly enough, he can make it to campus in thirty minutes to pick up his boyfriend and to formally apologize for his behavior. His hand is just about to twist the doorknob when his entire body freezes, his slacks growing dangerously tight.

Through the wooden blockade, a needy voice calls out his name repeatedly, heaving and panting in the way he only hears when he’s pushing his boyfriend to their third party-popper in one go. And it’s a celebration in his composition, chemical relief drenching the flames of his anguish but also dousing the fire in his belly with a carnal desire, one that forces him to bite his gums to contain his need to claim and possess.

Slowly and quietly, he opens the door and his eyes nearly pop out of the socket. There he is, the man of his affection spread out across the rosy satin sheets, all ready for him to take in complete stride. Chan’s hands are hidden behind the back that is so gorgeously arched, cock furiously glowing red amid the gray overtones of the bedroom and leaking endlessly onto the sleekest stomach he’s ever seen. Seungcheol physically weakens, his knees almost buckling under his weight and saliva filling his mouth.

In the blink of an eye, he’s bedside and right next to the other half of his heartbeat. The sight up close is enough to send his brain into a state of internal emergency. Creased, focused eyebrows, muscular obliques that contract with every pulsation of his aching dinosaur, and the wanton moans that slip out of the younger is unfairly attractive and the older can hardly breathe.

He’s unsure if the dancer realizes his presence but he takes a moment to fathom just how exceptionally beautiful the other is in spite of the sex that’s inked all over his body, hair matted on his forehead and nipples pronounced and demanding stimulation.

The sweetness is cut short when Chan bucks up once more and Seungcheol notices the glass tip welled deep inside the hole he loves to explore. It’s like a lightbulb is switched on in his rationality because he finally understands how the younger can be this randy without touching himself. Moreover, the glimmer of the silver handcuffs around his wrists catches the older’s attention and it’s like he enters a domineering haze, enthralled by his boyfriend’s blatant submission.

Through the mist, he finds a sliver of rationality. “Hey, baby,” he whispers with an accompanying thigh rub, the muscles in his grasp instantaneously flexing and hips undulating. “Daddy’s here. How are you?”

The younger’s eyes flit open, revealing the tears collected among the sore, chestnut eyes, and the older’s cheeks warm up. His lips quiver as he mutters silently, “D-daddy?”

“I’m here.” Seungcheol fans the hair on his boyfriend’s sweaty forehead and whiffs a bushel of apples. “I’m sorry I took so long, sweetheart, but I’m here now.” With one hand, he kneads the tension on Chan’s gluteus, and with the other hand, he outlines the dancer’s dangerous physique, so much more built now than when they had first met. “Fuck, Channie. You look so beautiful like this, lying on your back so prettily for me.”

“Please,” the younger pleads with a wrecked voice as goosebumps litter his skin. He keens to the delicate touches about his body and whimpers, fraying at the seams.

The older knows exactly what he wants, but he taught him better than to make vague requests even during the heat of battle. “’Please’ what, baby?”

Instead of whining like he expects him to, Chan lifts his hips to better reveal the butt plug planted, wagging his non-existent tail like a trance. Seungcheol can’t wait to bite him. “Please m-make me cum, daddy. I-I’ve been waiting so long.”

The last word cracks and the older warily frowns, the implications running deeper than the superficial. Carefully, he snakes a hand to the small of the younger’s back, rubbing there for a bit, before motioning for him to widen his stance. The other moves quickly albeit slightly hesitantly and it’s a pleasant butterfly in his stomach at the dichotomy between Chan’s outward confidence with his friends and the bashfulness only he can witness in the bedroom. “I know, baby. I’ll make this _really_ good for you, okay? Let daddy take care of you now.”

With a punishment palm still caressing the area just above Seungcheol’s circular weakness, another hand descends to land a gentle tap on the plug. The dancer’s oversensitivity drives him to scream, obvious that the length of the toy is sufficient to prod his bundle of nerves without much issue (the journey to the center of Chan’s core had always been a short journey but the older is definitely not complaining).

“Are you ready for this?” The younger rapidly nods in reply as he clenches around the toy, nearly sucking it in entirely with an urgent necessity. Seungcheol gingerly retracts the lubricated disco stick and the dancer wisely scratches onto the sheets beneath him, toes likewise curling, to avoid aggravating his metallic restraints. The portrait of his boyfriend’s tight hole expanding with the girth of the device forces the older to growl under his breath, predatory and prepared, pupils inhumanely dilated yet zeroed in on his treat. With the plug close to non-contact, he pushes it back in fearlessly.

The moan that escapes the younger’s lips is beyond obscene, the noise going straight into the older’s dick still stupidly trapped inside stiff dress pants and boxer briefs already wet with pre-cum, his sword whetted by the scarlet-tainted skin and the even redder cock that’s seconds away from thermoreactive meltdown. Seungcheol ruts against the mattress like a hormonal teenager discovering their sexuality for the first time, movements desperate for any figment of friction on his aching member. Meanwhile, he ensures that the dancer is not neglected during his time under the spotlight since he’s always one to put on a show-stopping, jaw-dropping, penis-elongating curtain-raiser.

It takes three sharp slams straight into his prostate to send rivulets of sticky white all over Chan’s stomach, the viscous and heated cum reaching all the way up to his jaw. The younger mewls as he shakes through his orgasm, his ass clenching angrily on the toy like it were his daddy’s cock forcing pressure down on the blast-off button. The volume was more than Seungcheol expected, the other’s entire washboard soaked in bitter cum and salty sweat, his personal midnight snack. He continuously maintains a dull stress on the spot to reap the season’s entire harvest.

Once Chan whines from overstimulation, dick spurting a miserable bout of milk, the older releases the plug and swoops in to lap up every ounce of baby maker’s seed within reach, caging in the smaller boy and hovering over him as if to protect him from a thief’s clutches. He sucks in marks every few centimeters, taking his sweet time to devour the belated afternoon delight freshly warmed up on his boyfriend’s writhing body. When he reaches the meal’s closer, his sumptuous dessert, he claims the peachy lips with his own, sating his desire for second rounds.

Seungcheol acts quickly, penetrating the oral barrier when the younger groans into the kiss. Their tongues mingle, the bitter salt of his interacting with something akin to dried fruit with a citrus zest. Like the vanilla to any sweetened baked good, the combination balances each other out synergistically and he can’t get enough of it, the longing ballooning in his chest further spurring on his corporeal fervor.

He’s the first to break away the connection, enthusiastic to see his boyfriend’s content smile, only for him to frown when he’s greeted with additional tears and trembling lips. Their gazes align and his concern skyrockets at the shaking irises. “What’s wrong, baby? Did I hurt you?” he inquires, cupping a rosy cheek, easily insulating the apple in his palm.

Chan declines gently, expression deep in thought. “N-no, it’s not that, daddy.” He pauses to catch a breath, gulping down air to calm himself and his uneven inhalation-exhalation cycles. “It’s ju-just something with me, something I want to let o-out of m-my chest.”

“What is it?” the older mumbles, tilting his head to let the other know he has his full attention. “You can tell me anything.”

“I know. All too well,” the dancer concurs with a drop-out-of-a-basin grin, a portion of a greater whole. When Seungcheol looks back on how they first met, how he took his run of the mill beer and its alcohol-induced courage to introduce himself to the adorable yet brazen college student in a company mixer the latter had no place being in, he will always remember falling in love with Lee Chan’s smile first. “I didn’t want t-to keep it any longer and I-I wanted to be honest with y-you, daddy.”

Seungcheol nods in understanding, reminded of his own reminders to the other that he will always be their safe haven. Reaching for the key on the nightstand, luckily the only key he has to wrestle from a chain this time around, he unlocks the cuffs to free the reddened wrists. After he tosses the restraints away, he repeatedly places butterfly kisses on the pulses, wishing away the ache there and anywhere else in his boyfriend’s pretty body.

“I’m s-sorry for what I said earlier a-and f-for not answering your texts back sooner,” Chan hiccups, breathing weighted on his lungs. “I-I was being a brat when I shouldn’t h-have been because y-you were so busy at the office and I wasn’t he-helping like I know I should have.”

He nearly opens his mouth in protest to explain how much guilt _he_ was feeling for cancelling at the last minute and for leaving him out to dry again, but he decides against it. This isn’t about him and his moral compass right now; it’s about Chan and his feelings. To compensate, he brings one hand to dandle the dark-brown posterior fringe and the other to rub soothing circles into the feverish skin of the dancer’s thigh.

“These past few weeks have b-been really difficult for me with my classes, rehearsals, and everything else, but it’s been doubly worse without you around me as often,” the younger continues with more composure. “Y-you warned me before that your partner job would be more demanding as time went on and I wasn’t taking it as great as I thought I was. The bed has never felt so huge and the penthouse is too empty when I’m here by myself. Every night is torture having to fall asleep without you to hold me close to your warm body and to wake up every morning and you’re already gone. It’s s-so cold when you’re not here and, truth be told,” he sniffles, water beginning to pool in his eyelids. “I m-miss you so damn much that it hurts,” Chan whispers, barely audible as if afraid of being heard. “I-I’m sorry for feeling this w-way, daddy.”

Seungcheol’s heart breaks into a million pieces at the revelation, moreover that his boyfriend thinks that he should apologize for the older’s mistakes. He knew that he was somewhat checked out recently, however, he never understood its extent until he heard the cracks in the younger’s voice, the quiver in their usually straight gaze, the way he can hardly restrain the flow of his emotion that slips from his beautiful eyes. And he despises that he’s the undisputable cause of the distress that doesn’t belong to someone as ethereal as him, a person who deserves to be earnestly treated and spoiled with all the wonders the world has to offer. Something he hasn’t exactly been doing correctly for the longest time.

Before he even realizes it, he has Chan in the warmest bear hug, wanting to defrost the weeks of his shortcomings with as much ardor as he can muster. He keeps his biceps locked on the broad shoulder blades, their heartbeats finding their joint rhythm. The younger remains frozen in place, arms still trained to their sides as if unsure of what to do.

“D-daddy,” he whimpers, “y-your suit’s going to be ruined.”

 _Fuck_ , he internally curses at the fact that, even during a time like this, the dancer is still putting him first. Chan’s too amazing for him but, summoning his damned competitiveness, he’s going to reach that standard like his life depended on it. “I don’t care about the suit, baby. I just want to hold you close to me. _Please_ let me hold you again like this, Channie.”

The dancer whimpers but relents as he brings his arms to loop around the older’s waist. It takes the perfect synchronization of their breathing for Chan to melt into the embrace, tears wetting the lapels. When he continues to hiccup and wheeze, Seungcheol loosens his grasp to allow more oxygen to enter while he caresses the nymph in his sanctuary.

The younger tightens his hold on him like a helium balloon he was trying to keep on solid ground and all the older can do is console and scent the sweetness that radiates off him in waves. _Nothing’s felt more like home_ , he ponders.

“Please d-don’t be mad at me, daddy… I-I didn’t want to be needy but I really l-like having you around all the time. I’m sorry.”

“I could never be angry at you. I just… I wanted to say that- _shit_ , me too. I love having you around,” Seungcheol mumbles, “so, so much, sweetheart. You don’t even know.” He plays with the hair on the younger’s nape, subtly bringing him back to his chest, and slots his chin on the gentle slope in front of him. In this position, he’s never felt more in tune with his partner, sensing every breath, every movement, every tiny apology he absentmindedly utters that sends shockwaves of emotions to all of his receptors. “Is that everything you wanted to tell me, baby?”

“There’s one more thing,” Chan admits when he’s out of hiding, blushing up to his ears.

“What is it-“

In hindsight, he should have seen the cheeky move coming. The dancer’s lips are pliant against his, trained to match the pulses he sends along the bottom lip he laves on. It’s a religious experience, he believes, to feel more than see or hear Chan come undone from something as simple as a kiss, tender and unhurried, Seungcheol spending the opportunity to _really_ understand the words that might have died on his boyfriend’s tongue.

And, speaking of tongue, the initiative seeker draws another from the pile and prods his thick lips, asking for permission. The older sighs into the kiss, grinning, opening readily to allow the younger to claim the steering wheel as he always does when he wants him to sit back, relax, and thrust into the showstopper. Chan climbs onto his lap and folds his arms around his daddy’s immense neck, mewling when his renewed cock brushes against the wool dress shirt. Providing a helping hand, the older situates his massive punishment palms to lift his lover onto his throbbing cock, several lewd noises reverberating when the throbs push the plug to deliciously plunge on the plush prostate, an alliteration he finds great interest in.

“Fuck, baby, you’re such a tease like that,” he commends when they part for air. “Do you even know the things you do to me?”

Chan smirks, flashing his chestnut eyes through fluttering eyebrows. “I do, Seungcheol hyung. I made sure to prep myself well for _you_. Aren’t you excited to claim _your_ reward for working so hard in the office? I’ve been such a naughty boy, playing with myself without you. Don’t you want to mark me up all over, punish me and make me _yours_?” the dancer challenges, lifting his eyebrows with dark intentions.

“Shit,” the older growls. Each enunciated word is a kindle to his possessive flame, the younger knowing which buttons to press to activate the animalistic adrenaline response hidden beneath a façade of calm and collectedness. If there’s one thing that riles him up without fail, it’s Chan laid out and ready for him, spurring him on and playing with the fire in his hands, spelling his demise by acting like a lustful temptation as if he doesn’t know he’s doing it.

 _Two can play at that game_. Seungcheol dives back down into the fray, kissing and biting his lips with the same zeal the dancer summoned with his ploy. This time, he doesn’t wait for the bus to stop and, instead, jumps onto the nearest vehicle as it passes by, travelling around the globe of the younger’s mouth like a tourist who takes photographs of every mundane object just for sentimentality. The tongue that mirrors his hunger, the gums that lubricate his tool and surprisingly make the younger curl his toes, and the uvula he encapsulates and toys with even though he’s aware that nothing will happen; the journey into his boyfriend’s world is one he wants to print onto a photo album.

Carefully, he sketches the slim, slim waist and grips down there, unable to control this urge to paint the beautiful body with his selection of blooming reds. Seungcheol bucks up into the tight heat with his clothed pocket rocket and watches Chan’s mouth go slack, body putty in his hands as he allows the older to press the device further into him. Hoarse screams are let out and his back arches beautifully, flexibility evident.

Just as he’s about to escalate into higher ground, the younger’s eyes fully creased with matching pants, he deposits him back in front of him, an innocent expression on his face when Chan looks like he’s about to throw a tantrum.

“Hyung,” the younger whines, neck protracting backwards, and a boxy pout adorning the ruby lips. “You’re such a tease! Why did you stop?”

“Oh, is that how it is? Only you can be the tease around here?” the sugar daddy confronts, smiling from ear to ear.

“N-no,” he mumbles, ears and loins on fire. “I just wanted you to continue it…”

And he’s honestly too weak to _ever_ refuse him. Seungcheol plants a trail of kisses from their mouth to their Rudolph’s nose to the damp forehead, rubbing the temples with his thumbs and remaining at that spot the longest. Pheromones seep from the apple-scented hair and his oxytocin congregate and overcrowd his receptors. “We will continue it, baby,” he beams indulgently, “but I have some things I want to tell you first, if that’s okay.”

“Oh, right,” Chan suddenly comprehends the shift in the room, meekly placing his hands on his lap. Apprehension clouds his bright eyes when he asks, “What did you want to talk about, daddy?”

“Don’t worry too much, Channie,” he soothes and intertwines the freezing digits with his own. He stares down at the difference in size, the adorable palm meeting his oversized one, but their pulses equally strong. “I just wanted to apologize, too, for my behavior these past few weeks.”

The younger looks taken aback, as if he were told that their building was constructed on an ancient burial ground (to this day, he regrets making the ghost haunting joke because the electricity bill has never been the same since). Wanting to finally clean the air between them, Seungcheol keeps his kind gaze trained on his partner, imparting all the metaphysical bliss that aims to comfort.

“I know that I haven’t been the best boyfriend lately with the way I’ve been spending all my hours in the office. I can hardly imagine how you must have been through all this, how it must have felt to wait up for me all those nights only to fall asleep on the couch or to watch our dinner go cold. I-I don’t have an excuse, really,” he sighs, eyes dangerously wet.

“W-wait, daddy, no! You’re so busy in the office with your entire staff and the year-end audit and-“

“Oh, my wonderful Channie,” he coos, cupping a soft cheek, “you’re always so quick to excuse me of all the blame. I could’ve – no, _should’ve_ – done so much better for you. Take more days off or occasionally time-in late to cook breakfast in bed for you. You know, just- just spend more time with you because there is honestly so many minutes in twenty-four hours, but I’ve been stupidly selfish with my time.” The older offers a reproachful smile and massages his partner’s eyelids with his thumbs. “So, what if I miss a deadline for once or forget to reply to an email for a little while? I don’t want to waste any more moments that I could spend with you, especially when I know that it’s possible. I want to do better for you, baby. You deserve so much more than you give yourself credit for.”

A tear finally drips from his lacrimal duct and he quickly wipes it away, wanting to remain strong for the younger who’s already bawling across from him, biting his upper lip that quivers to contain the waterfall that escapes his trembling eyes.

“I’m sorry for taking so long, sweetheart. But I’m here now and this is where I want to be. By your side, for as long as you’ll permit me.” Seungcheol reconnects their foreheads and nuzzles closer to release the butterflies in the microscopic space between their noses, in the depths of his heart that only beats for him. “Thank you for being so patient and honest with me. There’s so much time I have to make up for, I know, but I want to start now. I promise to be better, Channie. I want to work on this relationship with you, okay?”

The older pecks each knob of the other’s fist, slightly wet from fallen emotions, before he places one last kiss on the lips of the man he holds dear. ‘Magical’ cannot even begin to describe what it’s like to experience intimacy with Lee Chan, plain adjectives incapable of fitting the bill.

The closest he can get is the whisper of a firework’s fizzle. It’s the loud clamor before a thrill-seeking drive, anticipation coursing through his veins as he ignites the wick. The surging excitement as the flame closes in on its target, chemical epinephrine activating his fight-or-flight response, eyes hyper dilated and energy zooming through his nerves. The calm before the storm as the ball of strontium, barium, magnesium, and so much more ascends to their summit, leaving behind a glittering trail. The beauty of the technicolor detonation, a plethora of hues that stain and illuminate the sky in a way that steals everyone’s attention and turns heads, his ears going deaf save for the same fizzle that epitomizes the scientific marvel and brings the moment back full circle.

And that’s about how close he can get to filling in the blanks with his limited vocabulary, more so with how Chan always manages to blow the words right out of his head (take the expression in whatever way one may deem fit).

“I want you so, so bad, Channie. This,” he points between them in reference, “this is something I want to work on. Do you want to work on this relationship with me, baby?” Seungcheol asks, voice embarrassingly shaking at the end.

The younger looks down at their points of connection, cautious eyes blinking away the tail end of his tears. The shared grip tightens, hope ballooning in both of their chests. “S-such a stupid question, daddy,” Chan teases, scoffing. “You’re asking m-me a question you already know the a-answer to.”

The older must look dumbfounded for a moment because his processing system takes its sweet time to buffer. When it finally clicks, he shakes his head fondly. “I’ll take that as a ‘yes’?” is his output system’s guess, which must be as obvious as the ocean’s color because the dancer only sends back a knowing look.

“Of course, I want to work o-on this relationship with you. I-I can’t imagine myself with anyone else,” Chan reveals.

“Me neither,” the sugar daddy reaffirms. “You know that I’m not going to let you go without putting up a fight, right? I’ll work hard to be the man I promised to be. In fact, you’re going to see so much more of me now that you’ll honestly get sick of me.”

“I don’t think that’s possible, hyung. You already drive me wild as it stands.” His boyfriend puts on his boxy smile and Seungcheol’s never felt affection this pure, this true. “In return, I’ll also do my part, too, daddy. I’ll be more understanding and maybe even less needy if you want.”

“I don’t think I can ever see you being _less_ needy, baby,” Seungcheol chuckles, carding through the other’s frayed locks. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I like the fact that you’re needy. It makes it so much easier to spoil you rotten,” he supplies with a smooch on the hairline.

“It’s funny, Hansol said the same thing to me earlier when I called him.”

“Well, tell Yellow that he knows you too well.” The older beckons for his boyfriend and he’s greeted with a captivating and expectant expression that he wants to bring into fruition. “Hey, baby. I wanted to thank you for being honest with me. There’s no denying that I’m just a human and I’m bound to make errors along the way, so I hope you can be patient with me and call me out when it happens. And, on my end, I’ll really do my best to be better for you, alright?”

Chan’s eyes twinkles at that, an entire constellation inscribed in the space of every iris. “I wi-wish you could enter my head, daddy, because you’re so perfect in my eyes.” Slowly, he inserts himself onto his daddy’s vast lap with the latter’s assistance to hoist him into position. “Thank you, too, for listening to nothing but my feelings and for… for wanting to be better _with_ me. I want to grow alongside you if that’s okay.”

“It’s more than okay, sweetheart. It’s everything I could have ever asked for.” He tips his boyfriend’s chin up so that their pathfinders realign. “I love you, my beautiful Channie. More than words could ever express.”

“I love you, too, Seungcheol hyung. So, so much,” he utters with his breathless voice, indescribably enticing.

Like magnets, static electricity brings their wandering lips back together for a shocking finale, though their pace is anything but rushed. Chan is the first to suddenly break away from the kiss, snickering at his daddy’s dismayed expression from the abrupt end. No matter the occasion or the subject of the younger’s euphoria, Seungcheol will always remember falling in love with Chan’s laugh second.

“Happy third anniversary, daddy. Here’s to many more ahead of us,” the younger commemorates, voice breathless.

“Many, many more,” Seungcheol repeats with an unabashed smile, unapologetic in the way his entire face lights up at the thought. “I know it’s late but,” he sheepishly looks from left to right before he continues, “do you want to, baby?”

Giggling, Chan nods, bangs shading his forehead. “You know I’ll never say no to that, hyung. I wouldn’t still be wearing the plug if I didn’t want to,” he explains, wagging his ass in its spot and reigniting the flame in his groin past the layers of clothes.

“You make a great argument, Channie. Let’s get you down from here,” he entices as he does just that, the younger laid back down on the satin that magnifies the beauty of his natural melanin. He’s about to reach for the toy to relieve the former’s tension, but the dancer stops his hand dead on its tracks.

A familiar scarlet blush swarms the apple of the Chan’s cheek and he bites his lip with false credulousness. “K-keep it inside, daddy.”

And all the blood in the older’s body immediately rushes to his neglected member, elongating to maximum capacity, an inhumane tent in his slacks formed just from the mere implication. “ _Fuck_ , baby. Are you sure about this?” As the dancer nods in response, he whips his head back with a prolonged groan to curb the temptation to ram into the other’s tight hole at that very instant. “Is this your anniversary gift for me?”

“A part of it, yeah,” Chan cheekily grins, incubus personified. “How about me, daddy? You said over the phone that you had something special for me.”

The most finite detail clicks into place in his brain. “I do.”

“Aww, you didn’t have to, daddy. You do know that all I want is to be with you, right?”

“I do,” he reiterates, a stupid smile on his face thinking about his present and those famous words. “Which is why I’m taking the day off later to take you to class and wait for you to finish so we can spend our anniversary properly. But I don’t have to give the gift to you right away; it can wait for a bit while we work on ourselves and on us. Just think of it as something to immortalize my love for you.”

Chan hums then climaxes to a wanton moan, already blissed out as the older hails his knees all the way up to his pebbled nubs, a large digit encircling the engaged sphincter muscles. “ _Ah_! W-will I like it?”

Seungcheol scoffs without the bite while he placidly extracts himself from his dress coat, careful not to damage the small, red velvet box in its innermost pocket. “I think you will.”

**Author's Note:**

> Moral of the story: Always communicate with your partner and, in return, you might just earn yourself some sweet and kinky lovemaking! ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ
> 
> I hope this story made sense despite the several twists and turns it took. It was _very_ self-indulgent and was the lovechild of this calling to write soft ChanCheol with a side platter of rough housing. Thank you for reading! ٩(๑❛ᴗ❛๑)۶


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